Dark Omega - A Warhammer 40k novel - Book 1 of the Maiden of Golgenna
by twilightpeaks
Summary: It is the 42nd Millennium. In the grim darkness of the far future there is only war. Beset on all side by multitudes of enemies, Mankind tethers on the brink of destruction. You are Marcus Aurelian, prodigal Interrogator of the Inquisition. You have been given a task of utmost importance: retrieve the tome of Inquisitor Melbinious and bring its secrets to your master.
1. DARK MILLENIUM

_It is the 42nd Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the God-Emperor has sat immobile upon the Golden Throne of Terra. He is the master of mankind by right of his own indomitable will, the lord of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies, and guardian of humanity's future by virtue of his unfailing wisdom and foresight. He is a God to whom a trillion prayers are uttered every second. He is a rotting carcass, writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium to whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die. Yet even in this deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigil. Mighty Imperial battlefleets cross the dreadful miasma of the Immaterium, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on countless worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion; the inexhaustible armies of the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the unflinching enforcers of the Adeptus Arbites, the ever-vigilant Inquisition, and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name but a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants, witches – and worse. To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for there is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods..._


	2. PROLOGUE - THE REALM OF CHAOS

Beyond our universe exists another realm, one quite unlike our own placid reality. It is a place of strange energies and infinite dimensions, where the very laws of nature are inconstant and mutable. It is a place of promethean creation and unbridled entropy; a furnace of creation and a maelstrom of destruction. It is a place of ideals, dreams, and emotions - and of corruption, nightmares, and insanity.

This place has many names: the Warp, the Empyrean, the Immaterium, the Great Beyond, the Spirit Realm, the Dreamlands, the Otherworld, the Abyss, Hell, to name but a few.

But to those that know it best, it is simply:

_The Realm of Chaos. _

It is where starships must go if travellers wish to cross the void between the stars, without taking lifetimes to reach even their closest stellar neighbours. It is the place from which psykers - humans gifted with preternatural powers of the mind - draw their power. It is - some philosophers and priests claim - the place the dreaming mind touches upon when we sleep, and where the souls of the departed go after death.

This realm of chaos is also home to strange forms of life and patterns of thought, all of them utterly alien to Man. Most of these creatures are little more than feral beasts that swim through the endless depths of the Immaterium, feeding off the wild energies of the Warp. Others are predators who prey on their own kind, primordial and dangerous, but mercifully mindless beyond base animal cunning and killer instinct.

But there are those that dwell on the other side who are different from their more primitive kin: Monstrous creatures of brutal intelligence and pure malevolence. Consumed by an insatiable hunger they desire nothing more than to cross over into our world, to feed upon the lifeblood and raw emotions of Mankind.

They are:

_The Daemons of Chaos. _

From the beginning it had known it was different. The others had either been docile and oblivious, or ravenous monsters possessing only the basest of bestial instincts. Even the larger, more intelligent ones lacked true purpose. Beyond preying on their lesser kin they craved nothing, thought nothing.

But it was different; it had this bottomless pit inside that could not be filled, no matter how much it fed upon the other creatures of the warp.

A singular thought occurred to it:

_I hunger, therefore I am. _

For aeons it swam the Empyrean, before it slowly became aware of the Other Side. There, just beyond its reach, behind an accursed barrier of orderly natural laws, lay the lands of honeyed succour. Endless fields of sweet nectar; the narcotics of pure emotions and the rapturous energies of life. Its hunger grew even greater.

Slowly it pieced together the lore of this other place. It was indeed possible for one such as it to cross over and feast. Not an easy task, to be sure, but others of his kind had done it, and the feat could be repeated. But try as it might, it could find no path through the barrier. Every time it tried, the door was barred, one way or the other.

It had hungered for an eternity before it finally had its chance. A tiny bubble of that other place it could not reach, drifting aimlessly upon immaterial tides in the wake of a monstrous tempest. It approached the bubble in high spirits. It had learned from another Empyrean wanderer that the bubble was adamantly strong and seemingly impervious, but that sometimes a tiny crack could be found.

It was not a patient being, for it desired nothing more than instant gratification, but the long ages had made it nothing if not persistent. It waited and watched, until finally the tiniest of flaws was revealed: Barely large enough to slip through, and existing so briefly it might as well not have been there at all. But it was ready; with improbable speed it grabbed hold of the moment and willed passage through the crack.

On the other side wonder waited: A veritable fountain of emotions; raw fear, desperate hope, lecherous desire, pure anguish, prolonged suffering, acute pain, bleak hopelessness - so many flavours to taste!

This magnificent cacophony of activity and mirth emanated from the strange little creatures that resided at the centre of the bubble, huddled together inside a sarcophagus of inert reality. Already it could hear their minds crying out, speaking in unfamiliar tongues, conveying exotic and exhilarating information about the wonders of the other side.

The things inside were Men of the Earth, travelling through the Warp aboard a Voidship, hoping to reach another World upon which to settle. Its interest in the other side grew greater - as did its hunger.

Now that it had pierced the barrier, it sought to find a host that it could possess. It knew that possession was an essential part of any expedition into that other place. It had - at no small cost - bargained away this lore from the Keeper of Secrets, the wisest of its kind. Without a host to possess, the Keeper had explained, no daemon would be able to exist in the physical universe for very long.

The hull of the stranded voidship proved an unanticipated difficulty; even the raw energies of entropy would take too long to eat through metres of battle-steel and warding circuitry. Getting turned back now was unacceptable. Such an opportunity as this might never come again, not even for one as long-lived as it.

A little trial and error saw it finding a way through. By altering its form to become a creature of volatile, exotic energy that existed out of phase with the structure of the Man-Ship, it was able to pass through the skin of the voidship unimpeded.

It manifested in the depths of the vessel, taking on a shape it felt was more conductive to possession, a semi-translucent spectre of hellish fire and hoarfrost, of fanged tentacles and devouring lamprey-mouths.

The Man-Things grew even more frantic when they realized it was among them. This only added to its already insatiable appetite. Was there really no end to the wonders of this place?

A few fought back, but it mattered not, for none possessed the unflinching will or the weapons required to fight a hell-spawn made of nothing but hunger, frost, and flame. Others fell to the floor, insane with fear, juicy morsels, to be snacked upon in passing, or left for later feasting. Most ran; they could run, but there is no hiding in the cold tomb that is a voidship lost at warp.

After the first spree of mayhem it remembered the words of the Keeper: possession is nine tenths of a successful manifestation. Its focus so restored it stopped slaying, and started possessing. The first attempts went awry. Some bodies fell apart before it could fully assert itself. Other bodies that it tried to wear were hacked apart, blown to pieces, or burned to cinders - the little flesh-things had rallied and now extruded a euphoric admixture of fear and courage. This was much more difficult than it had anticipated. Had perhaps the Keeper left out a few of the secrets of successful possession?

It could feel its form starting to come apart, its energies leaking away into the waiting Immaterium. Anger arose like a sudden warp-storm; it had been deceived! With anger came new purpose, and for a while it clung to existence through sheer fury alone. It renewed its efforts to find a suitable host. Finally it got the possession right; it came across a particularly welcoming mind, and this time it slid home, like a hand into a glove!

It feasted. It gorged on flesh and blood. It devoured souls. It draped itself in skin and bone. Hundreds of Man-Things fell before it, each a unique and delicious treat. Still it hungered. It fed some more. Hundreds became thousands. Their fear was thick and heavy now, a sweet syrup that slowly, but surely filled the black hungering pit. This was life the way it was meant to be lived, a true body walking the true universe, doing what it willed, feeding as it pleased.

Then the unthinkable happened. The sack of flesh and blood that was its new body somehow found the strength of will to banish it back into the Warp. Impossible! Unthinkable! Inexcusable! Oh, how it raged at its own sudden impotence.

As the hunger grew anew, it contemplated only one thing; to return...

Being banished had turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to it. Without banishment it would have been trapped: Bound within a body of flesh, confined inside the metal skin of the voidship, lost in the Immaterium. Trapped. If not exactly for all eternity, then for a very long time indeed. Long enough for a daemon to become weak of form and dull of mind, to slowly slide down into bestial obliviousness again, to no longer have the clarity of mind to know what it hungered for. A fate much, much worse than mere destruction.

More stuff the Keeper had failed to mention. When next they crossed paths there would be a reckoning: One that the insipid clawed daemon would not leave intact. It would take the form of a horned dark fire. It would slither forth in utter silence and secrecy, to fall upon the unsuspecting Keeper of Secrets with unbridled fury. It would impale its enemy upon a hundred spikes and tear it limb from limb. It would feast on the remnants, and relish as it devoured the last bits of the Great Liar.

Being banished provided other advantages as well. It allowed the possessor to truly appreciate the limitations of the flesh. Yes, the real world was a wonderful place of life and emotion. Yes, wearing a body was an exhilarating experience in and of itself - and the only way to remain on the other side for very long. But with the wearing of flesh came so many limitations, especially if you wanted the host body to endure for any length of time. Which any half-clever daemon most likely did; good hosts were hard to find, as it had experienced first-hand aboard the great colony ship Absalom.

The body limited it physically. The Warp was not really a place for physical prowess. So it was only natural that while on the other side one would want to really flex some otherworldly muscles. Play around a bit; enjoy the unfamiliar feeling of wearing a body. Unfortunately this was a sure way to ruin the host. First the flesh would twist and transform, and eventually become unstable and unusable. You could toss the man-things around of course, move like the storm, and catch bullets with your teeth - but beyond that you risked ruining the host.

The body limited it psychically. Any possessing entity retained the ability to utilize Warp energies, but the physical world placed such stringent limitations upon its use. Running amok with the Warp as your cudgel could burn out even a good host in no time at all. Cunning whispers into the minds of the weak-willed, a little hoarfrost and hellfire, stepping through a wall or flying across a chasm - these things it could do without ruining the host, but no more.

The body limited it mentally. Last but not least. Its mind was quite literally no longer its own, no longer free of worldly constraints. It was now forced to work with whatever passed for a mind among the flesh-things. It didn't feel so different then and there; while aboard the ship it has felt as cunning as ever. It was only afterwards it realized how dumbed down it had been. Forced to focus on the now, reduced to thinking about one thing at time. Unless you had experienced it for yourself it would be impossible to comprehend how limited a possessed mind really was.

The experience of possession had taught it more about the other side than the Keeper of Secrets had ever known, ever would know. It had made it realize that while possession was a nice way to experience reality, it was not the magic wand it had been made out to be. It had its uses, but there had to be another, better way, a way to enjoy the benefits, with none of the limitations.

If there was such a way, it would find it. If there was not, it would make one.

It hungered terribly now. The hunger was actually far worse now that it knew it could be sated. Irony the man-things would have called it, but they would have been wrong. It was simply the way of things - the universe was a cold and uncaring place. Irony was but a way to excuse cruel reality.

The key to its release was the Race of Man. Weird as it might sound; the fleshy emotional things on that voidship symbolized the future. They were numerous, and growing more so with every passing moment. They were brightly energetic and emotional.

And every last one of them had a door hidden in the deepest, darkest corner of their minds, a door leading to the other side, to the Warp. Preciously few had the ability to open that door, but more would come in time, of that it was certain. Man was too exuberant and inquisitive to remain static. Whatever Man wasn't, he would strive to become.

There were other races of course, had been others, would be others. But their presence paled in comparison to the dark promise that Humankind held. Now there was a true secret, a secret worthy of a Keeper. Speaking of which, without the trickery of the Desirous One, the subsequent possession, and the banishment, it would never have realized any of this. Now, there was an example of true irony, irony a human would have approved of.

It laughed then, a deep throaty laugh. A laugh that had never been heard around those parts before. A human laugh.

It would be patient. It would learn. It would understand. It would plan. It would succeed. But first things first. Another thing it had learned from Man. First it had a Keeper of Secrets to take care of.

Names hold great power.

It hadn't really given that fact much consideration. Not before the Keeper had, in utter desperation, given it a name of its own. The Keeper was funny that way; it knew all sorts of stuff, but it was loath to share in the first place, and if you got it talking it invariably left out key pieces or twisted the facts around to confuse things.

Only when all other options were exhausted, could the Keeper be counted upon to speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. Keeper of Secrets. Keeper of Half-truths or Keeper of Lies would both be more apt names for it. Were all Daemons of Chaos like that? Scoundrels and habitual liars?

And even if you could get the solicitous daemon to speak the truth, it was only the truth as far as the Keeper knew it. That was another important lesson. For all its wisdom and knowledge, the Keeper didn't know everything. And some of what it thought it knew wasn't even true.

Balphomael the Keeper of Secrets had whispered, even as it writhed in the grip of a score horned tentacles of dark fire. Such a simple little combination of syllables. But it had rung true, even within the chaotic maelstrom of the Warp.

It had heard and it had known: It was it no longer. It was Balphomael. It had always been, it just hadn't known before.

Balphomael. That was its true-name. The core of its being. The beginning and the end. The sum that was greater than all the parts combined.

Balphomael. That was its true-name. Or at least part of it. He had heard that name uttered and felt the power it held; the unspoken promise of bondage and servitude. He understood that there was more, that his full True Name was longer, that he'd just heard the first part of it.

Quick as a snake he had smothered the Keeper, preventing it from speaking any more. He had pondered the situation for a while: He could perhaps have coerced the poor Keeper of Secrets into telling the rest of his secret names - if the daemon knew them at all. But in doing so he would have given the Keeper unprecedented power over himself. It was too dangerous. Under no circumstances would he allow himself to be ruled by another, no matter how powerful. No one must know all his secret names, no one but Balphomael himself.

He had looked at the Keeper one final time. There was no further use for it; time for it to go away. With a mighty heave his black tentacles had constricted, crushing the daemon's frail empyrean body. He had then pulled with all his might, tearing the Great Liar into pieces that slowly unravelled as they drifted away on immaterial tides.

One does not try to trick or bind Balphomael and walk away unscathed!

There had to be a way. There had to be a way to enjoy the other side, without any of the limitations of possession. He thought long and hard: Once again he concluded that the future lay with Men. All Men had names of their own. And they were constantly naming other things. Man was the solution. Men could be harnessed to find the rest of its true names, one by one, and offer them up in tribute.

The plan was deceptively simple. It would offer up the one part of its name that was known, Balphomael, and then bide the humans find another piece. It would be careful than none of the humans ever learned more than two pieces of its true name. As soon as their task was done he would eliminate them and find another group to serve him. There were more than enough humans to choose from. Slowly, but surely it would piece its full true name together.

But where to start? It occurred to Balphomael that he didn't really know any humans. Not anymore. There had been that voidship of course, that time he had crossed over and feasted. But that was so long ago. Thinking of it only made his hunger all that much worse.

Then it dawned: The ship was the key here. The vessel had made it to its destination. The Keeper had professed as much when it was questioned under torture. The original crew would be dust and ashes now, but humans had a tendency to replicate though a hideous process they called mating. Or lovemaking. Or fucking. Or a thousand other names.

The original crew would be dead, but their progeny would still be out there, somewhere among the stars. It just had to find them. But even to a creature born of Chaos, the galaxy is a pretty big place. Ignoring the gnawing hunger, he thought back at those glorious hours aboard the human vessel. The voidship called Absalom had come from a far-away place called Terra. Earth, the cradle of Mankind. The ship had been en route to a distant corner of the galaxy, a place where Man had not ventured before. To a place they called the Calyx. He remembered as much from his time possessing the body Nikodemus, the Absalom's navigator.

Calyx. The name was apt. A cup that would gather his true names.

Balphomael would follow where the ship had gone and he would find this place called Calyx. He spread his dark wings wide and let the winds of the Immaterium carry him towards the edge of the galaxy. Past the domains of the Eldar he flew, giving the place a wide berth - the late Keeper had allies in that place, and great forces were in play that Balphomael didn't fully understand. Unlike the Keeper of Secrets he didn't delude himself as to his own omniscience; he knew a whole lot, but there was even more he didn't know. Pretending to be wise didn't make you so.

As he flew Balphomael thought about the humans. The more he thought, the more he liked them. Not just as slaughter animals for him to feast upon. No, humans were much more than that. If treated correctly they would serve him well and bring him what he desired, with none of the limitations of the flesh.

They are my salvation, he thought, so I shall make them worship me.


	3. PART 1 - THE TOME

_The difference between heresy and treachery is ignorance._

- Anon


	4. CHAPTER 1 - CONNECTION

You fight to maintain control of your body, but excitement gets the better of you. The treasonous flesh betrays your inner turmoil: A slight dilation of the pupils. A minute increase in respiration rate. An almost imperceptible tremor of the hands. All indicators of elevated stress levels. Nothing a casual observer would notice. But you are not under casual observation; you are under the most careful scrutiny ever devised by man, and if your watchers were to suspect...

With the mental equivalent of a shrug you put your all too human worries out of your mind, and focus on the great tome before you. It sits silent upon a lectern, its mysteries kept safe between closed covers. The lectern is in turn clasped between the inhumanly strong arms of one of the librarium's silent servitors. This cybernetic slave to humanity is but one of many such automatons belonging to the librarium. Its singular task is to retrieve and display books considered too precious - or too dangerous - to be handled directly by visitors.

For a moment you wonder where the servitor's fleshy parts came from. A vat-grown clone, a criminal sentenced to death, or perhaps an unusually clumsy data-scribe's apprentice. It's immaterial of course - the servitor is no longer human, no more than any other machine. It just has a few organic leftovers indicating its biological origin, that's all.

Closer inspection reveals the servitor to be an old and ugly thing. Well maintained, but undeniably worn and showing the clearest sign of long service: No external biological parts. A full plasteel shell, made to ape the human form and function. Not ape too closely though, for trying to replicate humanity in all its glorious detail is a great and unforgivable sin. A techno-heresy rigorously persecuted by the machine priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the agents of the Inquisition alike.

This particular specimen lacks a visible mouth. No orifice, no lips. Just smooth composites coated in skin-like polymer resin. For a moment you wonder if the absence of a mouth is symbolic or practical.

If the servitor is called upon to communicate it would do so through a vox-link or audio synthesizer. Nutrients are fed to it through a standard template sustenance port. So a mouth feature is really just useless extravaganza, a waste of space and resources - and the Red Priests of Mars don't particularly care for waste.

Yet most servitor patterns still have mouths, even if they have no real need for them. The reason is a very simple one. Men interact more easily with those they perceive as similar to themselves - even if 'they' are machines, rather than true men. Thus it follows that servitors should take on forms that are inoffensive to humans. Hence the mouths.

This particular archivist model, however, doesn't just lack an actual mouth. It doesn't even try to pretend to have one. Not even a pair of painted lines, made to look like a pair of pinched-shut lips. You suppose it is a fitting symbology for a librarium servitor that handles the most delicate of secrets. No mouth, no telling.

Your anticipation is playing tricks on your otherwise so orderly mind. It seems even one as supremely disciplined as yourself cannot help but be elated at the culmination of an epic odyssey. You kill the distracting lines of thought and return to the matter at hand.

You are in one of the eternally silent reading chambers on the Thirteenth Tier of the Second Library of Knowing. The thirteenth, and final, tier of the inverse pyramid that constitutes the physical structure of the library, buried deep beneath the overbuilt metal surface of one of the great flying cities of Bokiba-Bapas. The capital of the Bapas subsector is located on the spinward fringes of the vast reaches of the Finial sector, thousands of light years from the location of the original Library of Knowing. Very few people know of the librarium's existence, fewer still are allowed inside, and access to the secrets of the final tier are restricted to an elite few.

The private reading chamber is a circular room, some fifteen steps across. Immaculately cut and polished tiles of midnight-coloured slate on the floor. White-and-gold alabaster covers the walls and the domed ceiling. Rich carvings adorn every surface, conjuring forth scenes from this or that great work of human imagination. Heroic figures slaying twisted monsters, hideous serpents, and great dragons dominate. Plus a smattering of epic scenes from the Battle of Terra. And - somewhat out of place - one very lustful lady, her body confounding petite and shapely at the same time, frolicking her way through a bewildering array of lovers, male and female alike.

The carvings are reminiscent of some of the images from todays' reading of the Emperor's Tarot. Speaking of which, you only had time for a quick seven-card Throne of Terra spread this morning. The spread was rather momentous, if a little hard to interpret, given your present hurried schedule. Now you realize it was but a foreshadowing of this moment. It goes to show the deep and subtle influence the God-Emperor has over all that transpires within His domain.

The Inquisitor, in the guise of a heroic warrior. The same warrior that battles a great, horned darkness on these very walls. The Pilgrim, eerily similar in appearance to yourself on this day. The Stranger, hooded and robed. You've spotted him lurking in several of the wall-scenes. The Assassin, strangely armoured and wielding a tall, bloody spear. Just like the one looking down on you from the ceiling. The Titan, in the guise of the Eternity Gate, the great doorway into the Imperial Palace. Almost an exact match of the depiction you see right before you. The Martyr, standing tall before unspeakable monsters. Reminiscent of several of the heroes that decorate these walls. The Unclean One, reversed by the looks of it, in a very rare display of purity. The lustful lady on the wall carvings - she's the girl from the tarot card. Pure in a physical sense then, but not entirely innocent.

The chamber is otherwise bare, save a small raised platform upon which you stand, facing the lectern-servitor. The tome sits right there, within reach of your hand. It has taken you years, and your master a fortune in Thrones paid and favours collected, to get to the great work of Inquisitor Melbinious.

Just confirming the existence of the tome was a monumental piece of work. It became more difficult after that. It proved impossible to access the book while it remained in the possession of the Calixian Conclave. Much wrangling and subterfuge was required to make the Calixian Ordos decide to transfer it into the custody of the Second Library of Knowing. An epic venture indeed!

The Lords of the Conclave had finally relented in the face of temptation. Full access to the librarium's archives had been too sweet a deal for the always secrets-hungry Inquisition to resist. Kind of ironic when you knew that much of the lore held by the Second Library had secretly been removed from the original Library of Knowing on Calixian Fenksworld, before its destruction at the hands of the very organization that now craved that same information.

This too you push out of your mind. There is no time to waste on humorous remembrancing. You beckon for more light and the three spherical drones hovering above you realign themselves slightly on silent anti-grav coils, and increase the power of their illuminators by two-hundred fifty-four percent, bathing the reading chamber and the raised platform upon which you stand in pale, green-white light.

Like so many of the things made by Man each drone is graced by the likeness of a skull. In this case a stylized human skull, cunningly wrought into their polished metal bodies. More symbology. No wonder the citizen-dregs call them servo-skulls. To you the skulls are stark reminders that the drones are not simply glorified reading lamps, but also silent watchers with a singular purpose: to look for the slightest sign of deviation and report back to the unseen auditors tasked with assessing your moral integrity.

No doubt the servo-skulls carry weapons inside their silvery skull-hulls, ready to be instantly deployed if a remote command is given. Certainly they carry miniaturized needle guns, loaded with a variety of toxins, some designed to knock you out, others to eat through your neurons. Perhaps they also carry something more drastic, should ultimate sanction be required. Implosion bombs, hellfire canisters, or hyperfragmentation warheads. Powerful weapons, capable of instantly killing anyone - or anything - inside the chamber.

And the reading chamber itself can be sealed off with a blast door and quickly filled with plasmatic fire. Fire that will quickly and unrelentingly incinerate anything caught within. It would destroy whatever was being perused, but the rest of the librarium would be untouched. Sacrifice one piece so that the rest might endure. How eerily similar to the work ethic of the Holy Orders of the God-Emperor's Inquisition.

Drones you can deal with, no matter what weapons they carry. And when death finally comes for you, it won't be fire that claims you, of that you are certain. But there will be no cause of violence. Focus and calm. Give them no reason to suspect.

The tome measures 89.5 times 58.2 Imperial centimetres, with an average overall thickness indicating that it contains approximately one thousand six hundred and forty pages made up of psychoactive liquid wafers, similar to those found in the cards of the oracular Emperor's Tarot.

It is so much more than just a book. It is a work of genius. Something unique in a galaxy already filled to capacity with every wonder and terror ever conceived. There will be words on every page. No doubt elegantly written and eloquently phrased. But it is what lies hidden beneath the lines of text that are of interest to you. Embedded inside the crystal matrix is the real message. A psychic recording, accessible to a psyker with the right skills, and the desire to hear what forbidden lore the late Inquisitor Melbinious concealed between the covers of his tome.

Where did Melbinious find someone with the means and the will required to make this artefact? Psychic recorders aren't all that rare, but this one is at the very least two orders of magnitude more complex than what can usually be had, even for well-connected Telepathica adepts. You've trawled so many archives, pursued so many other lines of inquiry, but you never found anyone capable of such a feat.

The components alone must have cost a fortune. And not just any fortune - even the Imperial Governor of a modest hive world would be hard pressed to finance such a thing. Sheets of psychoactive material; normally they cannot be had at all. Not though standard channels, anyway. The Adeptus Astra Telepathica maintains a tight grip on the production and distribution of such things. So how did he amass what must amount to materials for hundreds of tarot decks?

You never really found out. Ultimately none of it matters. Who cares who made it, how it was done, or in what manner it was financed? The book is here. You are here. That is what matters!

Upon the cover of the tome are written words in simple High Gothic, the gold filigree lettering contrasting starkly against leather so darkly red it nearly becomes a shade of black:

_Ascensio _

_- vitam et regeneration, de Inquisitor Melbinious_

'Ascension, the life and rebirth of Inquisitor Melbinious.' It's no doubt the rebirth part of the work that has made this such a restricted piece of literature. Melbinious was a rather colourful Inquisitor, with a long and distinguished career, who held to some quite radical views on certain matters, including the nature of the so-called Tyrant Star - and, more interestingly, the extension of life beyond the normal human lifespan. He eventually had a falling out with the Calixian Conclave over matters of doctrine. He was ordered to halt his research into forbidden lore, and in anger he resigned from the Tyrantine Cabal, and turned his back on the Conclave. Or so the evidence - such as could be found - has told you.

There was talk of having Melbinious declared rogue following his resignation, but he disappeared from the public eye shortly thereafter. The matter was eventually laid to rest, without any conclusions being drawn. It was generally assumed that the shadowy masters of the snubbed Cabal had eliminated their troublesome colleague, without further ado.

You're not so sure about that. Inquisitors are extremely loath to turn on others of their kind, lest they open the floodgates of violence and find themselves embroiled in internecine war. And there are indications that Melbinious may have boarded a voidship and set course for the Koronus Expanse, never to return to the Imperium.

Be that as it may. Before his death - or disappearance - Melbinious commissioned this special piece of work. An interactive psychoactive tome, detailing his life - and his discoveries. Everything is in here, all the forbidden lore he amassed throughout his career. But the great prize is the promise of eternal life. Not something the masters of the Holy Ordos would want spreading around. But not something they would want to destroy outright either.

So they slapped the Dark Omega on it, and hid it away in the secure physical info-tombs beneath the Tricorn Palace on Scintilla, the high seat of the Calixian Conclave. But you found it, and aided by human greed you got access to it. Soon all the secrets of Inquisitor Melbinious will be revealed.

You reach forward and slowly open the cover. There is the soft creek of stiff leather. Incorrect storage is to blame. You would know. You had the book entered using an incorrect index key.

The first page holds only a short dedication, this time in a readily recognizable dialect of Low Gothic:

_With thanks, my Maiden. _

_By your grace we are remade_.

Multiple meme-threads start to form in the cognitive areas of your mind: Who is this Maiden? The Virginis Golgenna, the Maiden of Golgenna, is the name of ship that supposedly carried Melbinious out beyond the borders of the Imperium. You've also seen references to a 'Codename Maiden' buried deep in Melbinious-related fields of inquiry. Is the reference literal or allegorical? Is she a person? Semantics would seem to indicate that she is, but the text is too short to conclude. If a person, why was she important? If the ship, why the dedication?

Before you get ahead of yourself and lose focus again, you purge all unnecessary processes from your brain. There is no need for speculation. The answers are right before you, ready for the taking.

You reach forward to turn the first page. The instant you touch the crystal-matrix material the connection is made, and everything comes rushing into your eagerly awaiting mind...


	5. CHAPTER 2 - GATEKEEPER

Utter darkness surrounds you. Five quick heartbeats of sensory deprivation. Long enough for confusion to seep into the mind. Long enough for a tingle of panic to form along the spine, as subconscious processes conjure forth ghosts to populate the unknown. Fight or flight, basic human nature. Except when faced with man's own ingrained fear of the unknown, flight becomes the only option.

Fortunately you have long since evolved past such primitive animal instincts. Using a simple Psykana calming technique, you get rid of your budding fear, before it has the opportunity to become troublesome.

You are about to extend your senses psychically, when a cone of light spears through the dark, forging a ring of welcoming warmth in the dark void. Within the light, a heavy flat-topped and panelled desk, made of finely carved and expertly polished wood. Upon it a silver tray, a large decanter half-filled with liquid amber, a pair of exquisitely wrought crystal glasses.

A lone figure sits upon a high-backed, gilded chair. Middle-aged male. Average height and build. Fit. Combat capable. A cloak of rich crimson covers his athletic frame. Finely woven cloth. Expensive tailoring. Intricately embodied. Markings indicative of Inquisitorial service. No clear symbols of rank or office. Extensive interwoven devotional liturgy. Multiple purity seals force-blended into the hem of the garment.

A hood casts his face in shadows, but you are able to make out a neatly trimmed beard of grey and pale eyes that do not flinch when they meet yours.

You will your eyes to see into the emotional part of the spectrum. His aura is the colour of pale fire. Coldly calculating. Singularly focused. Utterly unrelenting. You've seen his sort of palette before, but rarely with such brightly muted intensity.

Is this Inquisitor Melbinious, revealing himself to you at last? If so, this moment was foretold, for the man before you is the spitting image of the warrior Inquisitor from today's Tarot reading. Much as you would like for him to be Melbinious, you coolly note that you lack sufficient data to conclude.

Whoever he is, he beckons you forward with his left hand, signalling for you to take the lesser seat opposite of him. A black glove covers his fingers, part of the armoured bodysuit he wears underneath the crimson cloak. His right hand remains hidden from view. You are certain it holds a weapon.

You're experiencing a recording, so the weapon is not meant for you in a literal sense. It merely signifies a certain level of paranoia and a willingness to use violence on the part of the man who made the recording. Interesting enough, but hardly surprising; Melbinious was an Inquisitor with a long and distinguished service record, paranoia and violence would be bread and butter to one such as he.

Subterfuge was another forte of his. To date you still do not have a confirmed likeness of the man. You have several images that might be of him - or not. Confirmation has eluded you. So you are left to wonder, is the man before you a psychic recording of the great Inquisitor Melbinious? Or is he merely a synthetic mind-construct, forged to resemble a lesser man? A trusted servant perhaps? Or one of the Inquisitor's own acolytes?

If he isn't Melbinious, then perhaps he is the symbolic Stranger indicated by the tarot reading? His appearance and powerful aura suggest someone existing beyond the ordinary, which is typical for the Ace of Excuteria.

...you find yourself sitting in the chair opposite the hooded stranger. You do not recall moving. You followed another line of thought and the recording made the transition for you. You must focus or risk missing out on potentially important information. You kill all active queries and give your undivided attention to the man before you.

He sits there, motionless and silent. You wish for him to speak, but his lips remain sealed. You're reminded of the mouthless lectern-servitor holding the tome for you. His is the mouth the servitor should have had, a narrow stern line, promising to remain forever shut, yet hinting at secrets that might yet be shared.

The moment of silence becomes painfully drawn-out, a long pause that threatens to overturn your calm and disturb your focus. The need to fill the void with words becomes overwhelming. You try to speak, but you no longer have a mouth. Panic would again have griped an ordinary man. You, however, brush it brusquely aside before it can set roots in your psyche. There is no need for mouths amongst telepaths.

You see words pooling behind his eyes. They gather until they become too many for his soul to hold. The words gush forth, flowing across the distance between you in a torrent of information, before boring into your receptive mind.

"My name is Haxtes," the man says without moving his lips, his voice loud and clear in your mind. "Haxtes Guilliman. No relation to Primarch Guilliman of the most noble Ultramarines Legion of Adeptus Astartes."

The voice is soft and even, with minimal use of inflection, and only the barest hint of emotional content. A deceptively mellow tenor, overlaying a core of iron self-control and calculated viciousness.

"Guilliman is just one of those surnames that are popular in almost every sector of humanity's great domain. No doubt having to do with the great fame of the great Roboute Guilliman. Same reason why Horus isn't a popular boys' name in polite society." He chuckles a bit at his own joke.

His lips are moving in synch with his words, but you know it's only your mind visualizing. Even a telepathic mind like yours has trouble breaking completely away from its primitive bio-physical roots.

He continues. "It is not the name given to me at birth by biological progenitors. And it is not the name by which I am known to my peers. I've carried a lot of names over the years. But Haxtes Guilliman is as close to my true name as you can get - or perhaps I should say as close to my true name as I'll allow you to get. If there really is a core to my being, and you could drill your way into it, you would find Haxtes Guilliman waiting for you there." He gives you an appraising look.

So this is how the tome handles access control. You had envisioned some form of protection, some form of encryption. Something to keep the unworthy away. Clearly this persona construct is that protection, a gatekeeper so to speak. And if he's a gatekeeper, it follows that he has the power to turn you away - or reveal that which you seek. For now you must observe and assess.

The man in the crimson cloak continues. "I'm not sure you'd enjoy meeting the real Haxtes. He's not a very pleasant man. So perhaps you should be grateful that you will never meet him, and content yourself with perusing this recording of him instead."

Another joke? Hard to tell when his voice and body language give away so little. To compensate you tune your empathic sensitivity to maximum. It should make reading him all that much easier; small gestures will become obvious, minute shifts in emotional state easily detectable.

Haxtes. Haxtes Guilliman. The name doesn't ring any bells. You thought yourself well versed, relatively speaking, when it comes to the subject of Inquisitor Melbinious. You've never heard the late Inquisitor called just that. He was a master of disguises and used many aliases of course, so you suppose this figure could be him, posing as a mere servant of himself, but your logic processes tell you that's not the case.

There was, you recall, one Haxtii in Melbinious' retinue at one point, of that you are fairly certain. But that man was just hired muscle. A killer most likely dragooned into the service.

Realization dawns. The Assassin, the Eight of Adeptio. Haxtes is the fourth card from the tarot spread. He is the gatekeeper, the challenge you must overcome to reach your prize!

"Hired muscle, am I?" Haxtes gives you a disapproving look. "Let us try not to get too far ahead of things, shall we? It will do my story no good, and without the story there will be no revelations."

Your mind is caught wandering. Your surface thought processes must be bleeding through, mingling with your own half of the mental dialogue. So very unbefitting a Scholastia-trained primaris psyker!

Haxtes smoothly adds. "Have patience. Let me carry out my allotted task. We'll get to Melbinious, and his dark and dangerous secrets, eventually. In the fullness of time, all will be revealed, and so forth."

To your credit you recover quickly. "My apologies for my lack of focus," you say, even as you clear out any stray thoughts from your telepathic interface. "It shall not happen again."

A more self-important and rank-conscious man might have felt foolish, speaking thus to a recording of a dead Inquisitor's underling. To you it is nothing. A little politeness never hurts. You can always select a more confrontational line later on, if the situation warrants such a shift in your demeanour.

The Haxtes figure seems to approve of your feigned apology, and proceeds with its introduction. "This is no simple psychic recording. It is a very advanced psychic recording. If you believe in absolutes it is actually a one-of-a-kind recording. If you do not believe in absolutes, let us just settle for it being a 'very special' recording."

Indeed. The tome is certainly quite impressive. But you've seen enough strangeness and wonder not to be fazed by a recorder, no matter how complex. Impressed, yes. Dumbfounded, no.

Haxtes pulls down his hood, to reveal the face of a mutedly handsome, middle-aged man. He wears his silvery-grey hair cut short, in the fashion of warriors across the millennia. His neatly groomed beard is reminiscent of the style favoured by wise scholars or senior adepts. His eyes are less cold when out of shadow, their pale grey colour warmed by the light and the silver in his hair. He smiles easily, but a predator lurks behind that sign of friendship and human commonality.

He slaps his left palm gently upon the table, brusquely demanding your undivided attention.

"The recording has a certain interactive potential. You can affect how the tale is told - to an extent - by putting forth specific queries, just as I may pick up on your cues and adjust my narration accordingly. Once you get the hang of it, you should try it out. But not yet. You would just get lost in the myriad fragments of lore contained herein."

When you do not object, Haxtes continues. "Let us instead proceed with my introduction of myself. It will give me a chance to get to know you - and you me. It will prove beneficial for the both of us, I think." He looks at you intently. "Agreed?"

"Agreed," you reply, voice steady and gaze locked with his.


	6. CHAPTER 3 - BLOOD AND DEATH

The gatekeeper begins his tale. "The man that would become Haxtes was born on a distant and unimportant world during the twilight years of the 41st millennium." A very faint and equally brief smile graces his lips. "Come to think of it most of that millennium would qualify as twilight years for the Imperium. Those were trying times for the Adeptus Terra - the so-called Priesthood of Earth."

He pauses for a moment. Is he waiting for you to say something? You give him a vague smile of encouragement instead.

"Be that as it may," he continues, "the exact date is not important. The world of my birth is dust and ashes now, a heresy best left undisturbed, lest it reawaken and fester anew."

He shifts in his seat a bit, leans forward as if to confide in you, and speaks in a very solemn tone. "Our beloved God-Emperor had sat immobile on the Golden Throne for more than a hundred centuries," again that briefest of smiles, "and he didn't look like he'd start moving again anytime soon. Rulership of the great Imperium of Man thus fell to the High Lords of Terra. They ruled with an iron fist, using the soul-numbing threat of the dark unknown to justify their excesses, and the sweet nectar that is government vouchers and sponsored entertainment to keep the citizens in line."

He continues in a tone only slightly less mocking. "I've heard it claimed that the High Lords rule the way they do out of necessity. That the dangers of the galaxy are so vast that there is no other way if the human race is to survive, let alone prosper. Well, I've seen the worst the galaxy has to offer and then some. And let me confide in you: It is pretty bad. So bad I may have lost my composure once or twice. So bad there have been times when I grew uncertain of our final victory. So I guess there might just be some truth to that old excuse for the tyranny of the High Lords."

Using the God-Emperor's name in vain. Ridiculing the High Lords. All very good and interesting, but what does this have to do with the lifework of great Lord Melbinious? Is it meant to provoke you? If so he'll have to do better than this. You've had heretics scream far worse at you during interrogation.

"Your mind is wandering again," Haxtes says. "I'm not going to allow that, not yet. Pay attention to what I have to say. Otherwise the playback will be terminated."

You ignore his rebuke. He can scold all he wants; his opinions mean nothing to you. Since nothing good will come from replying in kind, it is better to remain silent. Focus and calm, let those be your guiding stars.

Haxtes rises, puts his hereto concealed gun upon the desk with a calculated clank, and proceeds to pour golden amasec from a large decanter into waiting twin silver-crystal glasses. "Seeing as how we'll be here for a while I think drinks are in order. Talking - and listening - is thirsty work."

The rich fragrance of the liquor spreads across the table. This really is an advanced recording, to contain such exquisite and minute details.

You turn your attention to the gun. It's a heavy piece. Lathes pattern B1B bolt pistol, if you're not mistaken - your eidetic memory means you very rarely are. Standard Imperial .60 calibre. Not quite Adeptus Astartes ordnance, but more than enough to take down just about anything, short of power armoured troopers. Popular with Imperial Commissars, who favour it more for its spectacularly graphic execution capabilities, than its military utility. A common sidearm for the Sororitas, neatly complementing their ubiquitous Godwyn-De'az pattern boltguns.

Squat box magazine containing eight fat, self-propelled, adamantine tipped, armour-piercing, mass-reactive, hyper-explosive rounds. Powerful enough to more or less guarantee a one-shot kill capability against anything even remotely resembling a human. Advanced sighting aids. Integrated suspensors for added stability and recoil dampening. A powerful nonstandard launch booster cunningly worked into the barrel of the gun, without upsetting the purity and perfection of the standard template the weapon is based upon.

Unsurprisingly the weapon carries the mark of a master gunsmith: Meouf Kane, of the Fane of Fykos. A man so famous for his handiwork that his guns are renowned, not only in Calixis, but in faraway places, like your master's native Mandragora sector. His hallmark is altogether exquisite quality, but without the excessive ornamentation preferred by so many artisans and gunfighters alike. Nothing to detract the mind from the gun's deadly purpose.

Your eye catches something: There will be Blood is engraved into the dark gunmetal. Or to be precise it says Theyr wilth be Bloth, which is not consistent with the most common Low Gothic dialects in use on the capital world of Scintilla. The use of the letter Thorn - Þeyr wilþ be Bloþ - would suggest something closer to coreward, perhaps one of the worlds in the Markayn Marches.

"The inscription, it's Solomoni. Old Solomoni, from back when the Haarlocks reigned supreme on Solomon," Haxtes says. "With spelling so close to Scintillan Gothic, it has to be one of the major worlds. And the Thorn is indicative of either Markayn or Drusus. Beyond that you'd have to have a longer snippet of text to work with. Or you could simply wait until we reach that point in the story." He gives you a right wicked smile after driving the point home.

You make a slight, dismissive gesture, urging him to let the matter drop and instead continue.

Haxtes picks up one of the glasses and moves around the table. He's definitely not short, but neither is he very tall. You peg him at around 184 Imperial centimetres, give or take a few millimetres.

"Used to by one hundred eighty-five, but years of service has taken off a centimetre." This time you're able to pick out the faint humorous tone in his voice. He's hinting at greater sacrifices than a few millimetres of height.

He hands you the glass. This time his smile does contain a little warmth, but you recognize the mummery behind it. His aura remains colder than the void.

Compared to the impoverished and malnourished masses of the Imperium's many hive worlds he's a veritable giant of course, but when compared to the Imperial gentry he's rather average. Not small by any means, but he lacks bulk to go with his height. You correctly pegged his build as athletic when first you saw him, but he's actually on the lower end of that scale in terms of muscle mass. You imagine his strength is of the cold iron kind, the one that endures long after harder, but more brittle materials have snapped.

However average his height; his presence is quite remarkable. Standing next to you the sense of him is powerful enough to make a distinct impression, even within this recording. To make such an imprint he must have been a truly remarkable man in life - and a potent psyker to boot.

"It has a twin," Haxtes says matter-of-factly, "called There will be Death. This one," he points at the heavy handgun on the table, "I use for the marks I wish to take alive, but," he pats something in a shoulder rig hidden under his cloak, "this one I use purely for killing."

He walks back around the table and resumes his seat, picking up his own glass in the process. "I hope you enjoy the amasec. Its like has not been tasted around these parts for a very long time indeed."

He takes a sip before continuing. Something of a smile finds its way into his features. It's not a smile of the mouth, but one of the face. Of muscles relaxing and moods mellowed. "Remarkable beverage, don't you think?" he exclaims after trying it.

As you've yet to taste the amasec you bring the glass to your lips while offering an age-old toast to Him on Earth: "To the God-Emperor's everlasting rule!" you say in a loud and clear voice, leaving no doubt as to your own allegiance and devotion. Deception assuredly has its place, but to even pretend at anything other than utter obeisance to the Master of Mankind is not something you do lightly.

You've never been a great connoisseur of alcohol, but this particular brand of liquid gold burns most wonderfully on the way down. You have truly never drunk its like. You give Haxtes a curt nod. "Excellent indeed. At least there we can agree."

Haxtes seems to ignore your comment. "I would probably have been a fair bit taller and more substantial, had I received the necessary nutrients throughout my formative childhood years. My parents were both quite tall, and my brother reached a respectable height. But in hindsight I'm rather glad it didn't work out that way. Going about unseen is so much easier when you're average-looking."

That last statement is almost a challenge, daring you to comment on his size, seeing as you are a bit taller than he. You decline to rise to the bait, preferring instead merely to observe.

There is a slight pause. Then you feel a rather pronounced shift in the nature of what you're experiencing. It becomes more like a playback than an interactive affair, more like reading a book than having a conversation.

"Are you offended or horrified yet?" Haxtes says, his voice flat and distant. "You should be," he says, nodding almost mechanically. "If you obtained this recording from a legitimate source it will undoubtedly carry the mark of the Dark Omega."

He looks at you, searching for a response, but you keep your face - and mind - impassive.

There is another short pause before Haxtes continues in the same dead playback tone. "Very few people outside the ranks of the Inquisition will even have heard of this security protocol, let alone have the means to unlock it."

When you still do not reply he feigns interest in the contents of his glass, studying the colour of the amasec as it swirls around inside the crystal container.

As you suspected the recording is indeed trying to query your mind, but you've decided to see what happens if you give it little to nothing to work with.

After a couple of seconds Haxtes continues. "So that means you're either an Inquisitor or a highly trusted servant of one." He's looking right at you, but his eyes are distant, as if focusing on something else entirely.

"By all means proceed, but be warned: If you're a puritan you'll be constantly annoyed by my tale. If you're a radical you might find you're not welcome after all."

Another attempted query for you to ignore. Your master's inclinations are not really for you to debate with this gatekeeper.

Haxtes goes on. "Call me irreverent if you will, but I've seen and done too much to keep up appearances for the sake of those of tender sensibilities. Go out there, kill a few thousand heretics, survive a couple of xenos invasions, face a full-scale daemonic incursion without shitting yourself. These things tend to destroy people's minds, but for those who pass through the gauntlet with their sanity intact...it either makes them cramp up like clams, or they become a little more flexible. I'm of the flexible type. Read on or not, it's your call."

You keep your quiet.

There is a drawn out pause. The recording is trying to adapt to your presence. Trying to form a more coherent presentation based upon your preferences. Your reluctance to answer is obviously making this process quite difficult.

Again you feel a shift. It is more subtle than before, but still discernible.

"If you've got the necessary security clearance you won't be incinerated for being in possession of this work. It might still endanger your soul, however, if you do not have sufficient moral fortitude. But that is ever a challenge in our line of work, isn't it?" He knits his brows and drops down a note. "Be ever vigilant, be ever distrustful. And remember always: Knowledge begets heresy - and heresy surely begets retribution!"

His performance is pure brilliance. Try as you might, even your conditioned mind cannot keep a smile from finding its way to your lips.

Encouraged perhaps by your smile, Haxtes launches into a lengthy monologue. "You're not an Inquisitor, but you work for one. You didn't always serve the Ordos though. Let me guess: You were picked up by the Adeptus Arbites in your early teens, after an involuntary display of psychic potential. Held in detention under semi-humane conditions. Shipped to Holy Terra aboard a Black Ship. Not a pleasant experience, but as a cooperative latent you were one of the fortunate specimens. Only mildly drugged by a torpor cocktail, fed to you through your meals. Locked in one of the communal psi-holds, alongside other promising, but harmless candidates."

Pretty accurate thus far, but that's a fate you've shared with so many other budding psykers.

He continues. "Tested and classified by the all-knowing auditors of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Useful, but not astropath material. Too bad. You never got to gaze upon the rotting carcass of the God-Emperor and have His gaze sear your soul just enough to make it less appetizing to the daemons of the Warp."

That pretty much follows from the first part and the fact that you're obviously a sanctioned psyker and not an astropath. Plus, predictably, some additional irreverence. You've known Inquisitors who would have shot this Haxtes character for far less.

"Instead you were assigned to one of the Scholastia Psykana's training divisions. You were classified as powerful, Gamma grade I'd wager., possibly borderline Beta. Physically fit, mentally healthy, good violence aptitude. Your psychic talents ran in a semi-uncommon direction." He takes a moment to consider what to say next. "The typical telepathy and prescience that dominate the ranks of humanity's finest, with just a little dash of pyrokinesis to spice things up. Rare and valuable enough to warrant special tuition. You were trained as an individualist. You could be a warrior, a bodyguard, a spy - or an assassin," Haxtes says, sounding very confident.

Too close for comfort, but it's only a lucky guess. He knows nothing.

"You were recruited by your master straight out of school," he adds. "No doubt causing your Psykana taskmasters much grief, as your services had already been promised to someone important, someone of rank." Again that smile that isn't a smile.

His description is not far off the mark. You are forced to supress the memories his conjecture conjures forth. It would not do for you to confirm his analysis. Give nothing away.

"But when the left hand of the God-Emperor demands, who can deny it? How does a promise to a Governor, a Cardinal, a Lord Militant, or a Rogue Trader compare, when matched against the irrational dread of what might happen should your existence displease the Holy Ordos?" He raises an eyebrow for emphasis.

Good, he's back to speaking in generalized terms. For a moment there you were starting to think he'd gotten deep inside your head.

Haxtes takes a quick breath before launching into it again. "Inquisitorial Rank: Interrogator. Make that junior interrogator, recently raised from Explicator rank. Extensive field experience, tempered by a solid theoretical and ethical package. Ambitious. Possible Inquisitor candidate. At least in your own eyes."

He finishes abruptly, leans back into the leather chair, cradles his drink, and awaits your response.


	7. CHAPTER 4 - OF TWO MINDS

You're taken somewhat aback by the detailed summary of your own past and present. It's not one hundred percent correct, but it's too accurate to be merely guesswork. Is the tome programed with algorithms so advanced they can derive the most likely scenarios out of the few clues you've given thus far? Or did it actually read this out of your deeper mental layers and feed it back to you? The level of detail seems to indicate some element of the latter.

Prudence and Psykana doctrine dictates that you should fully raise your mental defences in the eventuality of a possible mind-scan. Doing so would, however, sever your contact with the psychic imprint of the book. Cutting contact would be very counterproductive at this stage, as it would reduce the tome to the equivalent of a common written narration. So going turtle is not really an option.

But years of indoctrination, training, and field experience tells you that an open mind is the surest way to damnation. You must find a compromise that allows you to maintain the link between your consciousness and the recording, without allowing it full access to your deeper mental strata.

You settle for erecting psychic barriers around your subsurface memory segments and your ego core. Beyond that you'll just have to remain vigilant and take your chances.

Your suspicions are confirmed when the recording shifts again, reverting to playback mode. Earlier, when you first started refusing to answer, the recording subtly proceeded to probe your deeper memory levels. But with your mental walls so reinforced, it is forced back into a non-interactive playback mode.

You're pretty sure that this arrangement isn't the optimal way of interacting with the tome, but you must remain cautious until you know the tome well enough to be sure you have the upper hand.

Haxtes' voice starts to drone again. "If you picked up this outside of channels...or if you're one of those agents who cannot keep their noses out of stuff that they've no business poking around...then you're in for a world of hurt. I'm afraid that by accessing this you've damned yourself. You're now officially a heretic and an enemy of the Imperium of Man. What's worse is that you're an affront to the God-Emperor. Meaning there are trillions of people out there that would burn you if they knew of your sins. You can run, but there is nowhere you can hide."

How very quaint. Imperial propaganda at its least imaginative.

"But the worst part is that you've messed with the Most Holy Orders of the God-Emperor's Inquisition. You've read something they'd rather be kept a secret. That was just plain stupid of you. It's the Emperor-be-damned Inquisition. And no one messes with the Inquisition. Didn't your whore of a mother warn you about them?"

Hazy memories of a motherly figure are conjured forth from the deep recesses of your mind. Actually she did warn you. But then the Black Ships came, and you ended up getting an offer you couldn't well refuse.

"They will hunt you and they will find you. They will never let up, never relent."

The Inquisition does have a long memory, that much is true. Many a heretic has let his guard down after years on the run, only to find history - and the Holy Ordos - have caught up with him.

"And when they do find you, they will take you and they will break you. They will break you in every sense of the word. They will break your body until it's no more than a living carcass. You will beg for death, but you shall not have it. They will twist your mind until there is no 'you' anymore. You will be what they allow you to be and nothing more. You'll think their thoughts, speak their words."

A bit on the graphic side perhaps, but yes, such things are definitely within the realm of possibility. In your experience, however, the Inquisition rarely bothers with such extreme interrogation techniques, unless the subject is a known or suspected high-magnitude heretic.

"And when your body is broken and your mind belongs to them, they will turn to your spirit. If you weren't a heretic before you'll certainly become one now, for they will tempt and test and pull and stomp upon every fibre of your being until you've forsworn the God-Emperor a thousand times over and spat upon each and every one of you multi-trillion fellow human beings. Surely you are now damned, even if you weren't before."

To claim that the agents of the hallowed Inquisition turn innocents into heretics is laughable. If heresy is revealed during interrogation, no matter the techniques used, is that not proof of guilt?

"And then, at the very end, you will finally feel death's embrace, as the pyrotechnic fingers of the incinerator turns your body into fine ash at temperatures exceeding two thousand degrees above absolute zero. The last traces of what were once you will be consigned to a dusty datavault. If any living soul even remembers you at this stage, they will never dare speak of your fate, for fear of sharing in your misfortune. It will be as if you never existed at all."

Pretty standard fare for any bio-hazard material, including the corpses of mutants and heretics. In your case they would use a slightly different method, for the Holy Ordos do not burn pyrokines as a matter of principle. The end result would be pretty much the same, however: final, unavoidable death.

"And on the other side of death's sundered veil He awaits. Sitting in eternal silent vigil over the souls of the faithful and the faithless alike He will sort out his own. And He will know you, and He will cast you out into the outer dark, into the nether pits, into the gaping maw of hell!"

Oh my, you didn't see that one coming - seems whoever made this tome had a flair for religious theatricals.

You definitely have the measure of this recording now. If you do not 'speak' to it by giving it access to your surface thoughts, it tries to dig deeper and pick your memory. If you also block deeper access, the tome has trouble adapting in a meaningful manner. It just spews out Inquisition propaganda and other rubbish.

The Haxtes persona speaks with great conviction and gravitas, effortlessly switching between the roles of the chastising interrogator, the firebrand preacher, and Administratum meme-adept. It is entertaining after a fashion, but ultimately useless.

A certain playfulness seeps into Haxtes voice as he finishes with dramatic flourish. "Not a very pleasant fate. But richly deserved for equal parts heresy and stupidity."

The recording pauses to give you an opportunity to reply, but you continue to pretend to focus on your amasec.

"Reading this clearly isn't the smartest thing you ever did. But you might as well read on. You're damned anyway. They'll never believe you if you say you didn't read it all. And even if they did believe you to be innocent they are still obliged to go through the motions, just to be sure. Having a divine mandate can be a bitch sometimes. There is no cutting corners or playing at favourites. Everyone is guilty until proven innocent. And you know what they say about innocence in the Inquisition? Innocence...innocence proves nothing."

His eyes bore into yours with unusual intensity. Sensing that the recording is desperately trying to query your mind, and fearing that you've pinched up too tight, you relax you wards just a little, allowing choice pieces of information to bubble up from deep memory to accessible memory. "But I'm preaching to the choir here...Interrogator Junioris...Marcus...am I not?"

Deep inside your mental fortress the psychic equivalent of a smile spreads across your features. The recording has taken the bait and is responding just the way you want it to. Now it's up to you to sink the hook and direct the playback towards the prize.

To this effect you've divided your conscious mind into two separate segments. One part, including your ego core and deeper memory strata, resides inside a private mental fortress. The other part, which is a mirror image of the other, sans the deeper and inner layers of you, is left to interact with the tome. This way you have complete control of what the tome reads out of your mind. No need for it to know everything.

Ego division is a technique known to all sanctioned psykers, but not all of them are as good at it as you are. You can regularly maintain four or five such ego compartments, and during one trial you actually managed seven. Admittedly that left you shaking, vomiting and bleeding from your eyes - it took weeks to fully recover - but it was worth it to see your Psykana taskmasters properly impressed. Less than one in a million human psykers can do that. And you won't need seven minds for this, only the two. Two minds you can maintain indefinitely.

Secure inside your inner bastion you are free to engage in some internal reflection. You do have the required clearances of course. Otherwise you could not have made it here. The Emperor-be-damned Inquisition is rather serious about its security. You would know. You're part of it. But questions might be asked about whether or not you should really have those clearances to begin with. Questions might also be raised pertaining to the transfer of the tome to this location. Prying minds could also conclude that you're working on behalf of you master, rather of your own accord. And those same little minds might take it upon themselves to judge your master based upon your actions. You know his intentions are pure, but they will not see it that way. You know they won't. The old guard is ever jealous and afraid of the vigour and ambitions of the powers-that-will-be.

It will not come to that, however. Long before anyone thinks to ask any questions you will be done and gone. At any rate there is no need for the recording to know any of this. It might have built-in failsafes that could trigger if it were to perceive you as a security risk.

Your opinion of the Haxtes persona as a guardian and a gatekeeper has been reinforced. Now you positively know him to be a built-in safeguard against unauthorized access. So you will remain the devoted prodigal interrogator and keep him ignorant of your true purpose. Give him just enough to convince him to grant you access, no more.

"...I was just one man among uncounted trillions," your interactive mind is still listening to Haxtes. "To understand how I rose above the rabble and became something greater requires an understanding of the underlying events that shaped the Calixis sector towards the latter half of the 41st Millennium."

You would prefer going straight into the mysteries surrounding Melbinious and his research into immortality, but you know it won't be that easy. No, you'll be forced to play along with this Haxtes character until such a time as you have an even deeper understanding of how the tome can be manipulated. You are confident you can - eventually - find a way to bypass the gatekeeper and go for the prize.

Haxtes continues. "I could say that we need to go back to the beginning and tell the tale from there. But there really are no beginnings. Every so-called beginning builds upon other beginnings, all the way back to the real beginning of it all. Which I strongly suspect was also just the natural continuation of something that came before even that singular event."

If, however, he's going to start quoting metaphysics at you with any regularity, your patience is going to be sorely tested.

"So, instead of trying to go back to the very beginning we will instead go back to my childhood. See if we can find there the seeds of what was to come. If you are perceptive and persistent it will lead you to your answers - eventually." He lets the last sentence hang in the air, daring you to object.

You supress your misgivings and instead nod amicably. "Do please proceed, I'm all ears."


	8. INTERLUDE - ANGEL OF DEATH

The Achilus Crusade had been shrouded in such secrecy that not even the mighty Space Marines were told the particulars. The Green Knights Chapter of Adeptus Astartes had been handed their orders, like they were nothing more than a regiment of Imperial Guards, as had every other chapter currently involved in the crusade.

The orders themselves had contained an additional layer of deception: They had bidden the Green Knights prepare for deployment into the Margin Worlds, a region of unhallowed space, pressed perilously close to the roaring warp storms that marked the edge of the civilized galaxy. There they were to make an effort to reach and relieve the ill-fated Margins Crusade, long thought to be lost.

Only they had never gotten to the Margin Worlds. Instead the Chapter's navigators, acting upon secret orders given to them by their Navis Nobilite Novators, had travelled along hidden paths and shrouded routes, until they arrived in a place none of his battle-brothers had ever heard of, let alone visited.

If Chapter Master Belkovets had any foreknowledge of these events, he chose not to share them with anyone, not even his closest advisers or ranking officers.

Now, years later, Kaminsky knew perfectly well where they were. As one of the librarians - the psychic communication officers of his chapter - it was inevitable that he would discover the truth. It was his duty to act as a living conduit for interstellar transmissions, and unlike the more common human astropaths he was entrusted with the highest encryption protocols, and could therefore perceive the contents of the transmissions he received.

Piece by piece he had assembled the truth: They were on the other side of the galaxy, out on the fringes of Segmentum Ultima. The Jericho Reach it was called, a region of struggling human communities, surrounded by great evil. But once, millennia ago, it had been an Imperial sector, a shining beacon of justice and unflinching allegiance to the God-Emperor. The Jericho Sector would rise once more, the Achilus Crusade would see to that.

It was the warp gate the Adeptus Terra had labelled the Jericho Maw Warp Gate that made it possible. It enabled the High Lords of Terra to order the formation of a great crusade on the fringes of Segmentum Obscurus, and then have it move through the warp gate, to arrive on the other side of the galaxy. The gate effectively bypassed the turbulent regions around the Jericho Reach, and gave the Imperium the drop on the many enemies of Man that had gathered during the long night.

Things had gone very well initially, far better than hoped for in fact. But after the initial period of quick gains, each of the crusade's three salients had run into trouble. Big trouble. In Kaminsky's mind it was a classic example of human hubris - and of political interference with the war effort. Simply put the politicos at Crusade High Command had ensured that the crusade had grossly overextended itself, so that when things started to turn sour, its commanders had no real way of getting things back on track.

The Acheros Salient had ground to a halt first, faced with the ravenous hordes of ferocious and corrupt warriors that poured out of the Hadex Anomaly. Kaminsky had killed his first renegade Astartes there. The coreward Canis Salient, which had made such great gains initially, had been outmanoeuvred and beaten back by a tech-savvy species the Ordo Xenos had labelled the Tau. Kaminsky found he had nothing but loathing for the filthy creatures; they were cowardly and weak, irreverent in their employment of technology, fit only for extermination. The greatest setback, however, had come in the form of the slowly encroaching Tyranid hive fleet designated 'Dagon'. It had almost completely overrun every gain made by the Orpheus Salient, and now threatened to overtake the entire crusade. It was up to the Green Knights to stem the tide, to buy Crusade Command time to react and redeploy. Noble Astartes sent to the slaughter fields, to save the hides of sycophants, corrupt bureaucrats, and self-serving politicians.

Brother-Codicier Kaminsky sensed the foul beasts several seconds before they sprang their ambush on Squad Ivanov. Sufficient time for the librarian to send a psychic warning into the mind of each and every member of the squad he was accompanying.

For the seventh time, in half as many hours, the space marines of Squad Ivanov reacted with all the speed and skill you would expect from battle-hardened Astartes. Six times before their defences had held, and they had walked away bloodied, but victorious. This time, however, their best wasn't going to be quite good enough.

They had already lost one Battle-Brother and had another man severely injured. Losing any more of his charges was unacceptable to Kaminsky. The squad was under his protection. His failure to keep them safe did not reflect well upon the Librarium of the Green Knights. Honour demanded that if any more space marines were to die, he would be the first to go.

The xenos abominations attacked as one, bursting out of hiding and storming towards the marines with unbelievable speed and ferocity. The men, forewarned by Kaminsky's signal, opened up with their bolters. Short, controlled bursts, mercilessly thinning the ranks of the charging xenos.

Not a single enemy would have made it into melee range, save for a tiny gap in the fire arcs between brothers Olegov and Abranovich. A trio of the xenos instinctively sensed this weakness and headed straight for the gap. Within moments they would breach the perimeter and all hell would break loose; in melee the genestealers could kill even battle vested marines.

Kaminsky didn't have time to think, let alone draw upon his reserves of psychic power. He only had time to react by instinct alone. He sprang forward, bolt pistol and force sword at the ready. He managed to squeeze off two shots at the rightmost genestealer. One of the bolts skipped off its carapace and didn't detonate. The other hit squarely, punched its way inside the alien and detonated with lethal force. The beast didn't die - it just collapsed, its innards turned to jelly. It trashed about a bit, but was no longer a threat, and could be dealt with later.

The leftmost stealer tried to flank him, but he had predicted this move and was ready for it. The force sword hit it in the upper body and sheared the xeno clean in half. He avoided its death throes by throwing himself shoulder first into the third drone warrior of Hive Fleet Dagon.

Voluntarily getting into grappling distance with a genestealer was definitely not Codex approved. But when all other options are exhausted you must either act, or die. Luck - or the God-Emperor guidance - was with him that day, making the stealer fumble its decapitating strike and instead entangle its claws in his backpack unit.

He recovered his balance, head-butted the stealer for good measure, removed both offending claws with a swipe of his sword, and then shot it once in the brain at point blank range. It dropped like a rock.

Around him the members of Squad Ivanov finished off the remaining aliens with methodical efficiency. Enemy dead, thirty-eight. Marine casualties, zero.

The second and third generation of genestealers hadn't been much different from the original ones, except incrementally larger. The third generation in particular had been easy to distinguish, half again as tall as, and much more massively built, than the preceding first and second generations. If anything it made them easier to spot and therefore easier to kill. There are very few things so large a bolter or a chainsword can't butcher it.

Later iterations reversed the trend. It was as if their abominable enemy, the Tyranid Hive Mind, finally realized that the weapons the marines wielded would kill its warriors, no matter how big or though they were grown. So it decided to try something new. The stealers became smaller again, and by the sixth or seventh iteration they were markedly smaller than the original, but still powerful enough to be a threat to the marines in their powered armour. They had also made away with what had been assumed to be their natural bluish-purple coloration, evolving a new camouflage pattern, perfectly suited for the scarred surface of Jerober XI.

The next couple of generations were less successful, becoming little more than glorified termagants, only without any useful ranged weapons. They only posed a threat to the dwindling number of remaining Guardsmen, who were having problems spotting them early enough to deal with massed attacks. Even auspex scanners were having trouble providing useful early warning. It didn't really matter; in a few weeks all the Guardsmen would be dead of other causes anyway, such was the insidious nature of the bio-weapons deployed by the Hive Fleet. Better the Guardsmen died quick, honourable deaths, rather than suffer the horrors of gene-regression.

The Hive Mind had quickly rectified the size problem, however, and the genestealer genome had stabilized as the highly effective Iteration X. It was smaller than a regular stealer, but still lethal to marines it engaged in hand-to-hand combat. It was harder to spot, although the marines with their superhuman senses and advanced detection gear were largely able to sniff them out before they could spring their ambushes.

But most of all the Iteration X stealer was quicker. Kaminsky hadn't thought that was possible, not until he was nearly killed by a horde of them, attacking suddenly across open ground. He had miscalculated; believing the marines to have more than enough time to gun the xenos down, well short of melee range.

His hubris had nearly cost the Chapter a good librarian - and the three squads under his protection. Fortunately the members of squads Ivanov, Romanov, and Aleksandar had remained coolly professional in the face of this new threat. There were no lapses, no errors, only methodical slaughter, even as wave after wave of hostile flesh rolled towards their lines.

It would not, however, be enough to carry the day. Too many stealers would reach the lines of the Green Knights. Many marines would die, perhaps all of them, Kaminsky included. The Chapter had lost too many marines already. Three more squads lost would put another company out of commission. It could not be allowed to happen.

It was time for Kaminsky to take steps to rectify his error. What time remained to him was - barely - sufficient to summon the forces of the warp, to smite the enemies of mankind. It was not a calm, collected, and controlled summoning. Instead it was rushed, frantic, and haphazard. Everything a summoning of warp energies should not be.

The psychic warding circuitry bonded to his armoured suit was turned to useless slag by the raging energies he called forth. An instant later strands of impossibly bright light erupted from Brother-Codicier Kaminsky's eyes, lancing out to connect with the dashing forms of the genestealer horde. For a few drawn out moments the battlefield lay bathed in the eerie radiance of the Immaterium, as the primeval forces of Chaos were let slip upon of the enemies of Mankind.

The unnatural glare caused marine auto-senses to terminate their sensory feeds, effectively blinding the power armoured Astartes warriors. When next the Knights looked, the genestealers were gone. Not dead, but gone, unravelled from the tapestry of creation, as if they never had existed at all.

Not a single member of the squads under Kaminsky's protection was physically harmed during the assault - though the same cannot be said about their minds and spirits. Several of them required corrective brain surgery to remove troublesome memories of what they had witnessed. Others required the spiritual and moral support of their chaplains to deal with the experience. One brother shot himself in the head with his bolt pistol, rather than suffer the seductive whispers troubling his mind.

Perhaps the Inquisition should have been informed of the uncontrolled release of warp energies, but no such notification was ever sent. The Adeptus Astartes keep to their own code; but rarely do they seek the counsel of others, and never if they feel it might besmirch the honour of their Chapter. So it also was with the Green Knights.

Kaminsky was not as fortunate as the others. The uncontrollable release of psychic energy had completely ruined his eyes and optic nerves, to such an extent that his sight could never be restored by bio-grafts or cybernetic replacements. His faceplate had been reduces to molten slag by the energy blast, causing horrendous secondary burn damage to his face. Repairable, after a fashion, but hugely painful, even for a space marine.

The injured Librarian was heavily sedated, placed in stasis, and rotated out of the crusade. For all intents and purposes the Brother-Codicier was a lost cause, his career as a fighting marine over. It was hoped he could still serve the Librarium in an astropathic role, but he would never again lift a weapon against the God-Emperor's enemies. A cruel fate for an angel who's craft is death.


	9. CHAPTER 5 - MY HOMEWORLD

The circle of light and its contents remains, but the darkness beyond is replaced by a hundred million bright points of light, wrought into the shape of a disk of twisting firmaments cradling a central, fiery orb. You recognize it readily enough. The Galaxy of Man, as seen from a distant location, high above the galactic plane.

"Akakios. Segmentum Obscurus," Haxtes says. "More specifically the Calixis sector, located rimward of the Finial and Ixaniad sectors, and trailing of Scarus sector, pushed right up alongside the unbeholden reaches of the Fydae Great Cloud." The view zooms in towards the northern fringe of the galaxy, zipping past the baleful stain that is the Ocularis Teribus - the Eye of Terror - on the way there.

"Akakios. Drusus Marches sub-sector," he continues. "I would not expect you to have heard of it. It was a small and unimportant world, located in an unimportant subsector of a very distant and equally unimportant sector, at the very edges of Imperial space, right where the authority of the Segmentum Obscurus battlefleets whittle away into nothingness." Haxtes makes a small gesture for emphasis; coming from a man with such muted body language it feels quite dramatic. "Out where the Astronomican is just a pale flickering candle, oft hidden from view by the baleful emanations of the Eye. Beyond lie the vast uncharted regions of the Koronus Expanse and the methuselah stars of the galactic halo. Beware the edge of the galaxy, or you might fall off. There be xenos. Astra Incognita. That kind of remote."

He's right. You cannot recall ever having heard of a planet called Akakios, which is slightly odd, since your memory is practically flawless.

Haxtes has risen from his seat, amasec in hand, but leaving Blood on the table. Death is still in the shoulder rig. A well-worn utility belt is strapped around slender hips. There is a scabbard with a short, straight powerblade fastened on his right side. On the other hip, hidden beneath the cloak you can see the contours of a slender pistol holster. Possibly a sliver gun, but you cannot be certain.

His voice is level when he continues. "Akakios. It was the site of a great heresy, and as a result the world was rigorously scoured of taint, and official records adjusted or repressed in line with the normal modus operandi of the Adeptus Terra. So not only was Akakios physically remote, it was thoroughly expunged from all branches of galactic lore. It no longer exists - and according to the records of the Administratum, it never existed at all."

"You mean your homeworld - this Akakios - was subjected to an Edict of Obliteration?" you ask.

It would certainly explain why you haven't heard of it. The Inquisition will go to great lengths, not just to fight heresy when it rears its ugly head, but also to supress any knowledge of it ever having taken place. The worse the heresy, the more rigorous the suppression of information will be. Up to, and including, striking entire worlds and their histories from Imperial records.

"Yes," Haxtes answers curtly and tosses back the rest of his drink with the practiced ease of one who knows his liquor. "The Calixian Ordos decided that it would be for the best for the Imperium if no one remembered my homeworld."

"Akakios. The world of my birth." He pauses for a moment, lost in thought. "I hated my memories of the place for many years. Hated them because they reminded me that I had been soft and spoiled once. Hated them because the stigma of heresy by association was upon me, for reasons of my birth alone. But most of all I hated them because it was on Akakios that the betrayals began. It was there I learned that no bond of family or friendship is strong enough to stave off the inevitable perfidies."

There is a certain regretful undertone to his voice. Not much, but enough that someone like you can pick it up. 'Someone like you' meaning a highly skilled telepath - with emotional receptors ramped up to max.

"Those memories of loss and betrayal stung worse than any pain of the body or spirit later inflicted upon me." There is more emotion in Haxtes' voice now, relatively speaking. "It is not without reason that the wise counsel us against such things: Frivolous joy instead of hard work. Hope instead of duty. Love for anyone but the God-Emperor. All signs of moral weakness."

You consider interrupting him, to tell him you've no need to know about his childhood traumas, but decide against it. Let him speak. It gives you time to observe, analyse, and understand the tome's workings. Focus and clam. Let patience guide your actions.

He clears his throat. "The weaknesses borne to me by my homeworld rode me for many years. Until one day I laughingly realized they were the least of my failings. The daemons of my birth had been banished by far darker and more insidious creatures." His voice trails away.

The scenery shifts again. The great orb of a planet seen from space soars towards you. White clouds over blue oceans. Continental landmasses, primarily in the southern hemisphere. Varied topography. Swathes of green in coastal areas and along waterways, but otherwise borderline arid climate. Extensive, but not excessive signs of human habitation.

Haxtes resumes talking. "Akakios' single sun, named Aethyr, meaning Pure Light in our forefather's tongue, was a yellow main-sequence star a fraction less luminous that Sol; just barely enough of a difference for the human eye to register. Akakios orbited rather closer to Aethyr than Holy Terra does Sol, but its albedo was higher and the greenhouse effect not as pronounced as the Terran standard."

Haxtes looks at you intently while speaking, trying to determine whether or not you follow him. Seeing that you do, he makes a vague motion with his head that could be a nod of acknowledgement.

"The actual energy retention was about the same, but differences in orbital eccentricity, axial tilt, topography and other factors conspired to make Akakios a borderline arid world. Seasons were also more extreme than the Terran norm. But with a little effort and basic irrigation techniques Akakios could be - and was - made into a human paradise."

The terms are known to you. You are an educated man. But you are more than mildly surprised by Haxtes' knowledge of such arcane lore. Many of the servants of the Inquisition are both learned and eloquent, but few would deign to study the arcane mysteries of planetology to such an extent. Usually they leave it to their savant staff to fuss over such niceties. Haxtes never struck you as the type that might have an interest in such fields of knowledge. You file the information away; it doesn't appear relevant at the moment, but you do not wish to discard it entirely.

"That is how I recall the world of my childhood. It was paradise. My paradise." Haxtes dismisses the memory with a flick of his wrist. "Before the snake entered it anyway," he says.

His voice is oddly bereft of emotion, indicating that the memories of childhood are indeed no longer bothering him. Either that or he's lying to you in a very convincing manner. But you've detected no physical or psychic signs of deception, making that an unlikely scenario. Consciously lying to you is next to futile given your unique skill set - psyker, telepath, and interrogator. So he's either telling the truth or he's the most masterful liar there ever was. You dismiss the notion; he might be a good liar, but he's not that good.

"My family lived in a largish country residence in the hills south of Thira," Haxtes says. "At least I remember it as being very large. It was probably rather modest by Akakian standards, for my family was, if not exactly poor, then not particularly rich."

He wasn't exaggerating when he said you would be going back to the beginning, to his childhood. You're vaguely intrigued, but mostly you're bemused by this rather unexpected turn of events. Why in the deepest pits of the Empyrean did Melbinious chose to put this into his tome? It makes absolutely no sense, unless it is some form of obscure test or esoteric security measure.

"Jaxel, Jax for short, was six years older than me." Haxtes continues to keep your under close scrutiny as he speaks. "He had his own room and was better than me at everything. He was always smug and superior in the way of older brothers across the galaxy. I envied him, wished I was he. He rarely deigned to acknowledge my existence. When he did, I often regretted drawing his attention."

Hardly exceptional behaviour for an older brother. You had three, two of whom were decent, but the third was a right monster. You haven't thought about any of them for years; you dealt with those memories a long time ago, burning them to cinders as part of your psychic training.

"My sister Eleena was four years my senior," Haxtes explains. "We shared a room my sister and I, an indication that our country house was not all that big. She was very shy and mild-mannered. And beautiful. She had the face of an angel, and her glossy black hair was the envy of all the girls at school. She was often lost in her own inner world. We rarely played and almost never spoke."

You never really connected with your own sisters. In your humble opinion all girls are lost in their own world. A world of unfathomable female memes and mannerisms. A world filled with things man was not meant to know. Not that you do not enjoy female company - you're quite fond of it in fact - rather it is a realization that men and women aren't really compatible, intellectually speaking.

Thus far you've only listened to Haxtes, but for a while now you've been aware that the narration is overlaying a sensory information stream. You decide to extend a mental probe into the stream, to ascertain if there is anything worthwhile to see. You are rewarded with flickering images from Akakios. They play out before your eyes, like a string of still picts.

The country house nestled comfortably among heath covered hills. A vast azure lake, gently wrapped in white drifts of mist. A range of mountains in the distance, capped in pristine snow. Everything is large and grand and tinged with a hint of mystery. The world as seen by a child before it is weaned to the unpleasant realities of life.

The probe provides Haxtes' tale with additional texture, but little additional substance. You'll leave the probe active, to see if it picks up anything useful. Even if it doesn't, the imagery is still a welcome supplement, much preferable to just listening to the monotonous drone of Haxtes' voice.

"I didn't really mind," Haxtes continues. "More often than not I was busy with my own affairs. I didn't have many friends as a boy, but there was no shortage of things for me to do. I spent hours wandering and exploring the hill-lands. I would do my homework. I'd read a book," you get a glimpse of young Haxtes with a physical book cradled in his lap, "or watch a holo-show. In essence I was alone, but not feeling lonely. Some people - my brother included - need to be with other people to feel whole. I always felt best when alone."

Man is not an island. In your experience the loners are loners for a reason. They are challenged in some way, damaged even. You've been something of a loner at times - people in your line of work often are - so you know what you're talking about. But you've always managed to maintain a healthy dose of human interaction in your life.

"Speaking of homework: We children went to school every workday. All Akakian children were required to go to school for at least ten years."

"Ten years? For all the children?" you reply. "Why would all children require such a lengthy education?"

"That right," Haxtes confirms. "At least then years. For the boys. Girls were only required to complete seven, but I think the majority did the full ten."

"But why?" you press.

Haxtes makes a minute shrug. "It was customary. And Akakians took great pride in their institutions of learning. Unlike most Imperial worlds being a wise and learned man was a source of status."

You shake your head in a mixture of disbelief and disinterest.


	10. CHAPTER 6 - SUMMER SKIING

"Education aside," Haxtes says, ending that line of inquiry. "From the house we could look east towards the snowy peaks of the Mastari range." You can see the mountains rising in the east, their upper slopes draped in a white blanket of snow. "We went hiking there in the autumn. Sometimes we went summer skiing, high up where the snow never melted." Haxtes makes a slow, snaking motion with his hand, starting at shoulder level and ending at desktop height.

Skiing? You didn't see that tangential coming. You're only passingly familiar with the concept of skis - two long, narrow planks strapped to the feet - a very peculiar mode of personal transportation, used on a smattering of feral planets, and a handful of more civilized worlds that remain locked in eternal ice ages.

Haxtes pauses, turns to look at you, and then addresses you rather more directly. "Did you ever go summer skiing in your childhood, Marcus?"

You don't reply. You've no particular desire to go down this path. Perhaps if you ignore the query he'll try something else.

Haxtes pauses to give you an opportunity to change your mind. Still you decline, until finally he resumes. "If you didn't, you missed out on something wonderful." He sounds regretful on your behalf. It's his most expressive statement to date.

Another pause, longer this time. When you still do not reply, he continues, somewhat reluctantly if you're to judge. "The rest of the family would get up in the predawn dark and get everything ready. My brother Jax and Mother would prepare food and other paraphernalia. Father would prepare the skis." Images from inside the house - it is as cosy on the inside as on the outside - play out inside your mind. "Then he would wake my sister and she would make her way into the family hopper, while Father picked me up and carried my still-sleeping body from the bed and strapped me into my seat. One of the few advantages of being the youngest child."

The Adeptus Mechanicus is well versed in the lore of gravitic manipulation, and produces numerous vehicles that can defy the pull of gravity, but for a family of modest means to matter-of-factly own a hopper is rather uncommon. Another Akakian peculiarity, to go with their love of education?

Haxtes continues. "When finally I woke up, we would be landing on a pristine white field of snow, high up in the mountains. The sun would be coming out to greet us, painting the world with magic crayons." The view of the snowy mountains, bathed in the reds and pinks of the rising sun is quite majestic and oddly calming. "I'd gulp down a quick breakfast and then we would get our skis. The weather would be perfect, minimal wind and the sun would shine all day. We would race down the mountain again and again, effortlessly carried to the top by the hopper that came for us on servitor-pilot when called."

Fleeting images of high-speed movement across wide expanses of white snow. The sensation is unfamiliar, but exhilarating. He's right: you've definitely missed out on something. If you were on your own time you might be tempted. But you're not. You're on the God-Emperor's time, and he doesn't gladly suffer his servants to waste time on frivolities.

"At noon we would eat a large meal together and we would talk and laugh and everything would be just perfect." Haxtes sounds pleased when recalling the event. "Afterwards father and Jax would find a more challenging place to ski, while Mother rested, and Eli...Eli would mostly just sit in the sun, soaking up its warmth like a lizard."

His sister is indeed quite attractive - a pale dark beauty - if a little too young for your tastes. The mother, however, she you would gladly have bedded. She is a mirror image of her daughter, only older and infinitely more alluring. Jax looks just like Haxtes does, only a bit taller and more heavily built. The father is harder to peg down. He's there, but always out of focus, or appearing too briefly for you to get a good impression of him. There are some potentially interesting interpretations here, but you've neither the time, nor the inclination, to delve deeper.

Haxtes' voice becomes more neutral. "Since I was not old enough to go with Father and Jax, and not inclined to just sit around doing nothing, I would go on exploring on my own - I'd just go on skiing downhill, looking for new places, secure in the knowledge that Father would come for me eventually."

He suddenly shuts his mouth. Quite firmly. His eyes have become hard. Silence grows between you. It becomes a heavy weight crushing down upon you. With each passing moment it grows more cumbersome. You can feel the connection between you and Haxtes slipping.

Slightly anxious that the contact with the tome might be interrupted you finally reply. "No, I never did go summer skiing. I never went any type of skiing. I barely know what skis are. I grew up with a family, that is true, but we were not in a position to have the sort of freedom or wealth required for such frivolous pursuits." A grim smile crosses your features. "And after the Arbites and the Black Ship there were even fewer skiing opportunities. Not a lot of skiing in the Scholastia Psykana curriculum."

You're surprised at the venom in your own voice. Bitterness conjured forth from dim memories, of a family that provided you with none of the warmth or love your soul craved.

The connection is back, stronger than ever.

"No? Unfortunate. As I said you've really missed out on something. If you'd like to give it a try, the tome contains a full recording of one of my childhood exploration trips. It was quite eventful."

You get the feeling that it's not just a story of snow and skis. That he's hinting that there may be something of substance hidden within. Well, you'll not be so easily deflected from your divinely appointed path. "I think I'll pass," you say, mixing finality with politeness.

Haxtes raises an eyebrow. "You can pull it up any time you like. But it will require a deeper level of immersion than the one you're at right now, so I suggest doing it later, after you've become more familiar with the way the recording works."

Tempting as summer skiing might sound; you decline the offer by ignoring it. You're here for a reason, you're here for the lore of immortality, sent here on the behest of your master. Deep immersion to go skiing does not enter into it. Not now, and certainly not later. "Not interested," you say with even greater finality - and far less politeness.

Haxtes face becomes impassive, his body language fully neutral, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "Suit yourself. Though you will come to regret that decision. Mark my words."

Lack of inflection or not, that last statement came out sounding like a threat. You get the distinct impression Haxtes is not used to being gainsaid - and that his standard reaction pattern in that regard is an elevated aggression level.

You do a quick analysis of Haxtes' behavioural patterns, faint and muted though they might be. He seems unusually composed and calm, most of the time. Yet he is also clearly somewhat short-tempered and prone to reacting with violence, rather than acting through diplomacy. There is also his penchant for alcohol consumption. Substance abuse is often indicative of deep seated emotional issues, issues that, somewhat ironically, often come to the fore as a result of excessive drinking.

Is alcohol abuse, brought about by traumatic experiences in his past, the cause of Haxtes' occasional loss of control? Is it an integral part of his personality, a flaw that you manipulate to further your own agenda? Or is the recording just putting on a show for you? The attire, the guns, the irreverent attitude, the drinking, is all of it part of a carefully crafted illusion? But if so, an illusion intended to do what? Trick you in some way? Test you? Deceive you?

There is more than meets the eye here, on more than one level. You've already established that Haxtes is a security measure, a gatekeeper, but you must conclude you've yet to fully understand its form and function.

Whatever the gatekeeper is designed to accomplish, you must admit that he's having an effect on you. In the short span you've spent together, Haxtes has nearly managed to get under your skin on more than one occasion. He's even managed to stir up memories of a childhood you long since burned from your mind.

The appearance of those memories came as something of a surprise. You severed the associative links between your childhood and the rest of your memory strata during the final year of your education. With exacting precision you used careful application of psy-fire to make incisions, cutting the connections between unwanted memories and the cognitive areas of your brain. The memories are still there, it's just your ability to associate with them that is gone.

Burning out the memory segments would have been far easier, but would have left you with gaping holes in your personality, much like a brain-scrubbing would. Your mind, however, was deemed far too valuable for such a crude treatment. So instead the instructors taught you how to use conduct precise self-psyrgery into your own mind. The pain involved was considerable, but the technique is undeniably effective when it comes to removing troublesome memories and personality defects.

So why this sudden re-emergence of a past long banished? Even a brief analysis points firmly at the link between you and the tome. If you burned your own bridges so to speak, then it follows that the tome is building new connections for you. In turn this indicates the link between your mind and the tome is deeper and more complex than you previously realized.

Even more reasons for you to be cautious. Yet you cannot afford to be overly careful either, not if it will prevent meaningful progress. After all, you've here for a reason. You're after the forbidden knowledge hidden within this tome. More specifically you're after the lore of immortality. Knowing just how imperative your task is to the furtherance of your master's holy work, is reason enough to risk everything.


	11. CHAPTER 7 - THE SNAKE IN PARADISE

"Anyway," Haxtes says, bringing you out of your inner reverie, making you shift focus back to the interactive compartment. "Father was a mid-level manager with a local manufactorum conglomerate in Thira. Every weekday he would get up early in the morning go to the plant. I think he was both very good at his job, and that he genuinely enjoyed the work."

Haxtes' father is a tall and wiry man. Always going somewhere or seen hunched over dataslates, peering intently into repeater screens, or sorting through stacks of printer media.

"Enjoyed it a bit too much perhaps," Haxtes goes on, "for he would not always come home for supper. Many weekends he would either go in to town to work for a few hours, or he would retreat to the study and do some paperwork from home."

Or perhaps he had found other female company in town. Even men with beautiful wives can be unfaithful. Perhaps a cool, petite blonde, to contrast his own wife. Or maybe he was into shapely, passionate brunettes that reminded him of his wife, yet provided him with the spice his marriage lacked.

Haxtes looks thoughtfully into his empty glass, a very faint and short lived smile on his lips. Or was it just a figment of your imagination?

With a small sigh he rises from his seat, puts down his class, picks up the decanter, and proceeds to fill up his own glass, before topping off yours. "I know Mother felt he was away too much. We children were used to it. I'm sure we missed his presence, but his absence was something we were used to and expected." He resumes his seat, cradling his glass. "What we never got used to was mother's silent spells and the wordless grief she tried to hide from us. The tearless crying. The dark around her eyes from staring sleeplessly into the night. The crimson lines on her ivory arms."

You see her clearly, sitting there by the window, peering into the lonely darkness. Her eyes are mirrors of the night, allowing you to glimpse the darkness gnawing at her soul. An untrained psyker. And a troubled one at that. This could get ugly.

"It got worse over the years. By the time I was eight it was a real force in our lives. We children could feel the unease building and eventually Father would leave the house. That only made Mother worse. She needed him so for his strength and boundless calm. He was her anchor. Without him she was a leaf caught in the storm."

So Haxtes was pretty disconnected from his family. It may have appeared a loving and harmonious family to outsiders, but in reality there was discordance and emotional disassociation. Much like your own family relations, only less aggravated.

Haxtes has another big sip of amasec. "In his own way he needed her just as fiercely as she did him. But love cannot make a broken mind hale, cannot make wicked witches into chaste maidens. When he finally realized he could not save her or heal her, he took refuge in his work. Work became his anchor when he no longer had the strength to be Mother's."

Haxtes has become quietly contemplative. The glass is no longer in his hand. It has traded places with Blood. You didn't perceive the swap.

"Quite perceptive for an eight year old, don't you think?" He checks his gun quickly. His hands are steady and his fingers nimble. His movements remind you more of a lover, gently caressing the curves of his woman, than a warrior preparing his weapon for battle.

Then and there you decide that the Haxtes persona is indeed a recording of a real person - a psychic shadow. He's too complex, too detailed to be a mere construct - no one could stitch something like this together without a single hole or frayed edge showing. You've yet to spot anything of the sort and you're positively sure you never will.

It appears the good Inquisitor made a psychic copy of his pet killer, turning him into the tome's primary line of defence against unsanctioned access. Not how you would have chosen to arrange for security, but Melbinious probably had his reasons. It doesn't really matter. What matters is how to get past this gatekeeper.

"In hindsight," Haxtes elaborates, "it is tempting to peg it on my latent psychic abilities, but the answer is much more mundane than that: Children are wary of moods and relations. Their minds are so receptive and perceptive."

He's done with the gun. He holsters it. An indication that you've passed through some form of security checkpoint? About time there was some progress. You've no intention of listen to his entire life story, even with the added texture from the sensory probe. Not sufficiently interesting, not by a long shot.

"Children are also quick to take after other children, so in a very real way I picked up the same things my elder siblings did. Although in all honesty, my sister was the more attuned of the two. My brother was fourteen, but my sister at twelve was far more mature than he. Besides, she sat around the house a lot more - and as it turned out she was a psyker, and a potent telepath to boot." He pauses to let you think that through.

So Haxtes comes from an entire family of psykers. You're left to wonder how they, unlike your own family, escaped the attention of the witch hunters. Long-suppressed bitterness rises like bile in the back of your throat. Again this sudden, unwanted, connectivity to your own past. You will have to do something about it. Can't have the tome stirring up all sorts of buried emotions and banished memories.

Haxtes picks up where he left off. "We knew, collectively, that something was not right. And then we proceeded, collectively, to pretend nothing was amiss, for the truth was too hard to bear. Pretending is another thing children are good at." He halts.

You fill the void with a question. "What became of your family? I take it from your statements that there was a purge of this world Akakios. Might it have had something to do with your homeworld's lax measures when it came to psychic screening? Or was there another cause?"

He gives you a blank look. "Well, we'll get to that shortly." That twisted parody of a grin graces his lips for a moment.

"I never went summer skiing again." The statement is laced with hidden meanings, a not-so-subtle attempt to persuade you one final time to peruse the skiing recording. You decline to take the bait.

Haxtes leans firmly back into his chair, letting the exquisite leather wrap itself around his armoured back. He takes a measured sip of amasec, letting the liquor linger in his mouth for a while before swallowing. "That summer when I was eight was the last time. Father was away a lot and mother was not well. Jax took to copying father by staying out often and late. Eli took after mother, sitting in her room, staring at everything and nothing."

Another contemplative sip. "I didn't mind too much, to me it was just more of the same old. It was summer and school was out. We had a new canine puppy that father had brought with him from Thira one day. We had another canine when Jax was little. It had died when I was two."

You discern a very faith aura shift, brought on by bittersweet memories perhaps? You'll wager Haxtes became rather attached to the beast. Perhaps to compensate for his lack of emotional interdependence with his kinfolk.

"It was Jax' dog really, but after the first few weeks he got bored with it. Father was away a lot and Mother and Eli were busy acting weird or playing at apathy. So it fell to me look after him." Haxtes voice is utterly bereft of emotion, but there is something about his eyes that hints at hidden feelings.

Yes, Haxtes definitely has fond memories of the canine, more so than of his other family members. You let out a mental sigh inside your inner fortress. As much as you like rummaging through the memories, thoughts, and emotions of others it's not why you are here. Haxtes childhood is of no concern to you.

"We called him Nix after the mythical navigator who in great antiquity had steered the great ark-ship Absalom across the void, to found a human colony on Akakios. According to our legends the journey had been long and arduous, hexed with bad luck, and pursued by nefarious forces."

"This settlement myth; it predates the Imperium, yes?" you ask.

"Indeed it does. By many thousands of years. At any rate, Nix led his people away from this nameless evil, to build a new home - Akakios, the Place of Goodness."

You been monitoring the tome for some time now, and believe you've figured out some of its underlying functionality. Rather than just sit and listen to Haxtes' talk about his childhood you decide to have a go at directing the playback. That will reveal whether or not you've understood something of the principles governing the tome's behaviour patterns.

You interrupt Haxtes before he can continue. "Could you elaborate somewhat on the history and culture of Akakios? The world is, as you suspected, completely unknown to me. I'm fairly well versed in Calixian astrography, but I remember no mention of this place of goodness, so I'm a bit puzzled. The Edict of Obliteration seems to have left a gap in my education."

Again a perceptible, however slight, shift in the playback. Exactly as you anticipated.

Haxtes nods solemnly in reply "I can understand your confusion. It's not every day a planet is lost."

"I would greatly appreciate it," you say.

"Yes, elaboration can be arranged," Haxtes finally agrees. "But I have someone better suited to the task than myself. Allow me to introduce one of my associates: Vern."


	12. CHAPTER 8 - THE GREAT ARCHITECT

In response to Haxtes' call an adept steps into the ring of light. He's wearing the utility robes of a senior interrogator. His eyes are those of an old man, but his skin is smooth and young. New skin grafted on top of old flesh. Very neatly done, but you can still tell. It's especially apparent where the skin meets the cranial graft of ceramite and plasteel covering the back of his skull.

He makes a formal bow. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Interrogator-Savant Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos. Vern for short."

You're passingly familiar with Archaos. It is a world famous - some would say infamous - for the loremasters and savants it produces. More recently it was also the linchpin of the Archaic War, a conflict that was a brutal and bloody as any in the history of the Calixis sector. The University-Hive of Veridia is unknown to you, placing it firmly in the minor league.

"I am the architect behind this artefact, this tome - the simulation that makes this meeting possible," he continues whilst moving closer. "In life I was also Inquisitor Melbinious' senior savant - and in the capacity as his chronicler and archivist I continue to serve."

This is an interesting development. You've already established that Haxtes is more than a synthetic persona construct. Your current theory is that he's the psychic shadow of the Haxtes that served in Melbinious retinue. By his own mouth this new Vern figure admitted to being the Lord Inquisitor's chronicler. You detected no falsehood in his voice, body language, or thought-patterns. You must indeed have passed through the first layers of security. The tome is accepting your presence and allowing you to interface more fully. If Vernissimon is the architect behind the tome it stands to reason he represents the tome's deeper, secret layers. He's the one you want to be speaking to, not Haxtes.

You make to rise, but Vern waves you back down, so you settle for an informal greeting. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos. I am Interrogator Marcus of the Inquisition."

"Please," Vernissimon says, "do call me Vern."

Up close the Interrogator-Savant is very tall. Half a head taller than you. A bit more than that with regards to Haxtes. He's also quite broad of shoulder. No, he's more than broad, he's...bulky. Yes, bulky is the word you're looking for.

"Exoskeleton. Mechanicus make. Started out as locomotive assistance, but subsequent additions have added to both functionality - and by extension, bulk." Vern's hands slaps firmly against ceramite plates hidden under his voluminous garments. "A man of my age needs all the help he can get."

The fleshy parts of his head are completely hairless, undoubtedly artificially induced. He wears the Aquila proudly, electooed into his face and forehead. You've seen many such displays of zeal - not all of them equally genuine.

Sensing your reaction a frown forms on Vern's face. "For much of my youth and adult life, near enough a century and a half, I was a man without faith. I professed to be amongst the faithful, but I was not. I went through the motions, prayed my prayers, made the offerings, and observed the holidays. But I did not truly believe." He makes the sign of the Aquila, two hands crossed in front of the chest, thumbs locked together, in a rough approximation of the sacred symbol of the Imperium.

Vern goes on. "Not until I was saved by Him. I was saved, when so many others were not. He put His mark upon me and the daemons of the warp feared to touch me. That is why I carry the Aquila upon my flesh, so that I will be forever reminded of my faithless years and what we all, and especially I, owe Our Saviour Emperor."

There is an undeniable quality to his preaching, something about the tone of his voice and his use of body language. He has charisma for lack of a better word. This man is more than just another savant. But then again, if he was the creator of this wondrous tome, how could he be anything less than special?

He falls silent, regarding you intently. "I am certain you are here for the forbidden lore, Marcus, but bear with us for a little longer. As you've no doubt have already concluded, the tome doesn't just offer up its secrets to just anyone. You've made a good first impression so to speak, despite your host's claims to the contrary, but we must go through the motions nevertheless. There is no way around listening to Haxtes' story I'm afraid."

So you're not entirely rid of Haxtes after all. It's something of a disappointment, but one that you'll just have to swallow for the time being. You're only scratching the surface right now it would seem. Rushing would be counterproductive at this stage. Bide your time, be patient.

"I see. If I have no choice in the matter, please do proceed." You nod for him to go on.

Vern starts talking, sounding very much like a school-teacher. "Akakios' history is shrouded in legend and myth. At its core it's a tale of a great ark-ship venturing out between the stars, back in hallowed antiquity." He puts on quite the show for his sole pupil, using his voice and gestures to expertly complement his words. "The ship became the victim of a number of calamities, but Nix the Navigator finally managed to bring its human cargo to a new home. It's not exactly a unique settlement myth; you'll find thousands of worlds claiming similar roots."

Yes, it is a rather common genesis myth. Your own homeworld of Metrodora has one not too dissimilar. Correction: had. The hive-cities and majestic orbitals of the world that gave birth to you are gone now, consumed by the galaxy-spanning war than never ends. An entire world destroyed, along with every wretched member of your own family.

"What is special about Akakios," Vern elaborates, "is that it may actually be true. The Absalom was likely an early ark-ship lost in the warp. But somehow, impossibly, it got through, arriving all the way out here on the edge of everything, long before any other ship made by man had explored this far."

Metrodora was rather closer to Holy Terra than the Calixis sector, well within the borders of Segmentum Solar. For a ship to have survived a warp journey all the way out to the edge of the galaxy...it must have been a very lucky ship indeed - or Nix was truly skilled in the ways of warp navigation.

"Akakios endured through both the Dark Age of Technology and the Age of Strife," Vern explains. "When the Angevin Crusade finally reclaimed the Calyx Expanse and turned it into an Imperial sector, Akakios was still there. Its people had fought off the Adranti and innumerable xenos horrors from the Halo Stars, kept technology and civilization alive during the long night, and learned to cull its own psykers and madmen."

So Akakios was a survivor world, a place where humanity not only survived in the absolute sense of the word, but where they retained both civilization and a measure of techno-lore.

"When the Imperium of Man came calling," Vern continues, "the Akakians rejoiced. After brief period of negotiation, the Akakians re-joined their lost brethren quite willingly. The world was entered into the Roll of Worlds as Protasia, the name by which the system was already known to Imperial surveyors and bureaucrats. An easy Compliance for the Imperium."

"Protasia?" you interrupt. "I've seen that name applied to a frontier world, located on the outskirts of the Drusus Marches, not far from the Maw."

Vern doesn't seem to notice your comment, but Haxtes does. "You might at that," he interjects. "It's the same place as Akakios - in a purely physical sense."

"But therein lay the seeds of corruption: The Akakians - or should I say Protasians - were guilty of great pride. This pride should have been crushed out of them before they were allowed entry into the Imperium," Vern says with great pathos. "The Imperium should have transformed Akakios into Protasia, in fact, as well as in name."

You're not sure you agree with that assessment. The problem with enforcing absolute compliance is that it requires great military effort, decades of occupation, and a massive rebuilding effort afterwards. God-Emperor knows there is enough war already. If a planet can be brought into the fold with less drastic means, it means more profit for all. And once in the fold the Imperium has other means of monitoring and enforcing the loyalty of its worlds. The Adepts of Terra take on many guises and have great resources at their disposal. More than enough to deal with a little pride.

Vern picks up again. "They were proud of their history, their accomplishments, their purity. No wonder they thought themselves better than other men; in many ways they were. Even the new Imperial name for their world was proof of that: Protasia is not of Gothic origin. It is a word derived from the Akakian word 'Protos', meaning beginning or first."

"Why would the Imperials have an Akakian name in their archives?" you ask. You realize Vern is leading you on, but you're still mildly curious.

Vern rewards you with solemn nod. "As far as the scholars of Archaos can tell, Akakios was actually a colony world that was settled by people from Malfi, back during the Dark Age of Technology. Protasia, the first colony of Malfi - or A'malfi, as it was known back then."

Haxtes interrupts. "That's not a theory supported by Akakian scholars. But no matter, they are all long dead, and unlikely to quarrel with you. Now, get back on topic."

"This sense of superiority," Vern resumes, "certainly meant continuing with their old ways. Concepts like equality, freedom, and democracy were central to Akakian-Protasian culture," his voice trails off, leaving you to draw your own conclusions.

Democracy? That certainly isn't a common means of planetary government. Not altogether unknown, but certainly uncommon. History has shown it to be an inferior form of governance, one that too often leads to civil unrest, tithe evasion - and heresy.

"So it was that the proud citizens of Protasia continued along the deviant paths their Akakian forebears had trodden, secure in the knowledge of their supremacy. For now that they were part of the great Imperium of Man there was nothing that could touch them," Vern chuckles, "except of course the Imperium of Man itself. For the day did come, a few millennia later, when the sins of Protasia could no longer be ignored; a mighty crusade of the faithful was called, to put an end to the growing heresy!"

Behind Vern Haxtes finishes his second drink, puts the glass down carefully and then claps his hands slowly and melodramatically. "A very good sermon Preacher Vern. Could have been taken directly from the lower infantry decks aboard the Departmento Munitorum mass troop conveyor Soon To Be Destroyed by Protasian Naval Forces."

Haxtes refills his glass with practiced ease while keeping his gaze fixed upon Vern. "Unfortunately for the rest of us," he replaces the decanter, "Vern developed a sense of humour during the later stages of his life."

He picks up his glass and leans back. "When combined with religious zeal and a thousand lifetimes of knowledge, that humour is kind of hard for the rest of us to follow. But Vern is having a blast. Are you not, old comrade?" Haxtes lifts his glass in a mocking toast.

Vern makes an equally mocking half-bow in Haxtes direction, "I stand corrected. I will leave it to you to finish the boy's education." He turns to you. "Call me again if you have need of me, Master Marcus. I'll be around." And with that he steps out of the circle and is gone.

Haxtes gives you an appraising look. "Disappointed?" he finally asks?

Of course you are disappointed! You had hoped you were done with Haxtes, but apparently you were being overly optimistic. You let the question hang there for a moment before answering. "No. I would not say disappointed. I'm still mildly perplexed and trying to figure out how this thing works. I'm not in a rush. I have time to listen."

He doesn't look like he believes you, which is fine by you. "Vern is indeed the resident librarian and loremaster, but I'm still the gatekeeper. You're not nearly done with me. And you've yet to meet the others."

"Others? There are more personas in here?" you ask, marvelling again at the complexity of the tome.

Haxtes regards his empty glass. "Indeed there are. We have a machine priest to handle the techno-arcane stuff. We have someone to handle obvious attempts at forced entry. And so forth. It's quite the team really. But I digress. All in good time and so forth. We need to get back on topic."

The last sentence is half a question. You indicate an indifferent level of agreement by having a sip of your drink.

Haxtes seems to take it as a yes and resumes. "Vern has it mostly right. The newly renamed Protasians were proud and cocky as hell. In the end they had no friends, only enemies. The Mechanicus wanted their secrets, but got nothing. The Ministorum was eternally frustrated by the Protasian version of the Imperial Creed. The nobles of Malfi were suspicious and the merchants of the Guilds Commercia envious. To name but a few. It's an old story, told again and again throughout human history."

Only too true. Man is oftentimes his own worst enemy. That's the reason there is an Ordo Hereticus.

"There is a bit of confusion as to whether or not Protasia actually rebelled first, or if it was set up by its enemies. But the end result was much the same. You do not defy the Imperium of Man. Or if you do there will be hell to pay."

He looks you straight in the eye. "Come. Let me show you what became of my homeworld."

You'd much rather call Vern back and have him talk about something worthwhile, like the secrets of immortality, but instead you let Haxtes' narration pull you in and under.


	13. INTERLUDE - A GIRL NAMED SALT

Once upon a time there was a girl named Salt. She lived in the small village of Divine Grace, upon the world of Zephyr, somewhere in the great Sixth Circle of Finial. Her parents were very devout, as were most Zephyreans. Her mother was a candlemaker and a good one at that; her honey-scented candles fetched a good price at the market, and the local templum readily accepted them as the family's tithe payment. Her father had no craft, but worked as a stonemason's assistant. It didn't pay very well, but it was honourable work - most of the stone he prepared for the master masons went towards the beautification of the shrines and temples of Zephyr.

Salt's father was also part of the Frateris Militia, the militia force overseen by the Adeptus Ministorum. Most of the able-bodied menfolk of Zephyr were - and her devout father was no exception. Indeed, as a sergeant-at-arms with the militia her father gained greatly in status - and received a modest stipend from the Ministorum officials. When Salt was little, three or four years old, she couldn't quite remember, her father had joined the glorious Margins Crusade - and never returned. After a while their stipend was annulled; the priest of their local congregation curtly informed them that Salt's father had deserted in the face of the enemy, and therefore been stricken from the rolls. Her mother had wanted to protest, Salt's father was no coward, but dared not - she could ill afford to antagonize the Ministorum further, now that she was a sole provider.

Thus it was that Salt grew up, fatherless and desperately poor, in the shadow of the great mountain that housed the fortress-monastery of Saint Ibelina. Her mother was hard pressed to provide for seven children by herself. Fewer people bought the candles of a woman whose husband had turned out to be a man of little faith and courage. Still she carried on, secure in the faith that her husband had been true until the end, and that the God-Emperor would provide and protect.

Just two days short of Salt's sixth birthday - she remembered that part very well - her mother had contacted the wasting illness the old women called the Scourge of Drusus. At that time she had not known anything about this Drusus, or the disease that carried his name. But by the amount of lamentation uttered by the old village hags she knew that it was deadly serious business.

Two days later, on the day of her birthday, her mother was deep in deliria, her body wracked by painful spasms, and her orifices weeping blood and puss.

Four days after the birthday that never was, her mother was dead - and each of her six siblings had contacted the disease. When she looked about it seemed the entire village was similarly afflicted. The lamentation had abated somewhat, to be replaced by the wailing of the sick and the desperate prayers of those about to die.

On the ninth day following her birthday, the village had grown eerily silent. If anyone was still alive they were doing as Salt; sitting at the side of their loved ones, praying for them and easing their passing into the embrace of the Father of Mankind.

More days passed. How many she could not tell. She no longer counted the days, only her dead brothers and sisters. When the last of her siblings had finally passed into the beyond, she opened the door and went out into the streets, barefoot and alone.

That was when she saw them for the first time - stern-faced girls from the monastery, none of them older than fourteen, decked neck to toe by tightfitting armour that glinted red in the glare of the promethium flamers they carried.

"Sister-Superior!" one of them shouted, a tall one with close-cropped black hair showing above her breath mask. "We have a live one!" The muzzle of the flamer swung towards her.

Salt stepped forward to welcome the cleansing fire.

Life in the monastery-fortress of the Adeptus Sororitas was very different from the simple village life she was used to. Even her name was different: She had used to be simply Salt, but such a low-born name wasn't good enough for the Adeptus Terra, so now she had a proper High Gothic name: Novicia Salinaria, Novice Salt.

Everything was different, except for one thing: The unflinching devotion to the God-Emperor displayed by every member of the community. That was the same here inside the mighty mountain, as it had been in the village. As long as she kept faith in the Master of Mankind, she felt whole, even knowing that all those she had ever known before, her own family included, were dead. Faith was her anchor, that which kept her safe in the storm. As long as she had that faith, she was not alone.

It had come as a surprise to everyone, especially Salinaria herself, when she was assigned to one of the Orders Militant; the Order of the Bloody Rose, one of the most famous warrior sororities in the Imperium. It was quite shocking really. She had always imagined she would be assigned to one of the Orders Hospitaler. Did she not excel in the gentle arts? Did she not have the healing touch? Why then, did the God-Emperor wish for her to fight? Truly His ways were inscrutable.

A fortnight later she was on her way to Ophelia VII, the oldest and holiest of all the Ministorum's cardinal worlds - and the home of her Order Militant. She was no closer to getting any answers, but she had at least made peace with her fate, so to speak. If the God-Emperor demanded she take up arms, she would do so without hesitation. If she was told to kill, she would do so, and consider the act of slaying an offering to Him on Earth. If she died, she would do so, knowing that her duty had been done.

After her graduation to the rank of Sister Militant, Salinaria had been handed transfer papers, pointing her towards the remote Calixis sector, a place she hadn't even heard of. It turned out the place wasn't far, relatively speaking, from the world of her birth. The coreward and spinward reaches of the Calixis sector touched ever so tenuously upon the borders of the Sixth Circle of Finial, within whose borders lay the shrine world of Zephyr. Not far at all - in the galactic sense.

Her lofty superiors on Ophelia VII had seen fit to bolster the Calixian Ministorum by granting them a sizeable number of Battle Sisters; a full Preceptory of a thousand fighting women. Salinaria's name was included on the roll of names listing the Sisters going into the first Commandery to ship out. There was trouble out there on the edge of civilization, and the time for diplomacy and espionage was at an end. A more violent approach would be required to deal with the heresies gnawing at the sector.

Her new posting was to a place called Malfi, a hive world, as bloated and corrupt as they came. It was the subsector capital of the rimward areas of Calixis and arguably the second most important world in the sector. Salinaria had detested the place from the onset. To her Malfi felt too much like her old village had done, gripped in its death throes. Mercifully the Sisters' monastic base was located on a small lunar body in the outer system, some fourteen hundred million kilometres from the Malfian surface. If she tried, she could still sense the hopelessness and decay of Malfi's hives, even across interplanetary distances. Or at least she imagined she could.

The God-Emperor possesses unfailing wisdom and foresight, including in the matter of one Sister Salinaria. As it turned out the young Sororita was more than a capable combatant; she turned out to be the living incarnation of the God-Emperor's wrath, a weapon to be wielded against all those who dared threaten the majesty of the Imperium or disparage the inviolable purity of the Imperial Creed.

Salinaria still considered herself well skilled in the more gentle arts; her numerology was good, her command of languages excellent, her social skills impeccable. She also had an uncommon talent when it came to healing. This could not be denied. But there was also no denying that her true calling in life was death.

The Malfian Preceptory quickly became deeply involved in combatting an insidious cult that had spread its foul influence across the stars of the Drusus Marches - and into the Malfian subsector. Sister Salinaria rose quickly through the ranks, testament to her skill at arms and her boundless courage. Had she been a man, her sisters whispered behind her back, she would have become _Astartes_, such were her murderous instincts.


	14. CHAPTER 9 - WELCOME TO THIRA

"It was a fine morning," Haxtes begins. "A cloak of heavy whiteness swathed the ruins of my hometown - Thira does get a fair bit of morning mist coming in from the lakeside."

As Haxtes speaks your sensory probe provides you with vivid mental glimpses of the landscape he passes through. If you're going to listen to Haxtes' story you might as well make the best out of it; gather as much information as your evolved mind is capable of processing. Some of it might actually turn out to be of importance. You're not overly optimistic, but with mental faculties such as yours, you've plenty of processing power to spare.

Rather than content yourself with still pictograms, you adjust the probe to provide the equivalent of live footage. You're immediately provided with a crystal-clear impression of the city of Thira - a ruined cityscape, swathed in thick, white mist. The tome contains an astounding amount of data.

"But today was special. My line of sight was down to ten meters, tops." The probe shows you he's not exaggerating. "Vern can tell you more about the local microclimate if you're interested. I would advise against it though, once he gets going on matters of planetology...there is no stopping him." Haxtes looks at you for confirmation.

You politely decline with a short shake of your head. Planetology is not the kind of lore you're here for. You'll no doubt call upon Vern later, when your access level has improved, but not right now. Not for blabbering about the particulars of planetology.

Haxtes continues. "Protasia's sun was up, a pale distant orb, just barely clearing the line of the eastern mountains. It had yet to find the power to chase the mist away, so I would continue to be provided with a measure of cool concealment as I moved away from my home turf and deeper into the city." There is enough light to see by, but there is no warmth in the pale rays that illuminate the city.

"Because I had concealment," Haxtes says, "I moved more quickly and more openly than I otherwise would have dared. I kept to the streets rather than creeping along the sewers and underground areas, or going through the many ruined buildings." All the buildings you can see have been damaged; some more than others, but none have been left completely untouched.

"Not that I was completely without cover. The streets were filled with rubble, burned-out vehicles and other paraphernalia. Sufficient concealment for a young boy on the prowl." You watch as Haxtes makes his way down a wide street, carefully picking his was across rubble and destroyed vehicles - both civilian ground cars and armoured fighting vehicles.

War has come to Protasia. You wonder what happened. Did the Protasian heresy Haxtes mentioned take the form of a planet-wide insurrection? Was an invasion required to reclaim the world for the God-Emperor? One thing is clear though, the Imperial reclamation effort seems to have caused an awful lot of collateral damage.

"This was normally a very dangerous part of town," Haxtes adds. "Firmly in Imperial hands. The guardsmen certainly didn't like locals snooping around. As of yet I was only in one of the numerous Restricted Zones, but the Forbidden Zone loomed ahead. Soon there would be no turning back. If they caught me here they would just beat me bloody. Unless I actually had the gall to try and evade capture, then they would just shoot me dead and note me down as yet another insurgent. But getting caught in the Forbidden Zone? That just got you shot on sight, end of discussion." He makes a short, chopping motion with his hand.

The fighting is over and done with, that much is clear. The damage looks old. There is no smoke from blazing vehicles or burning buildings. The dust of falling structures has long since settled. There are no rotting bodies, only a smattering of charred and crushed bones. There are no people about. No civilians going about their business as best they can. You conclude that the Imperial Guard regiments are in control of the population centres and are enforcing a strict form of martial law by zoning up the city.

Haxtes keeps on talking. "I had become pretty good at keeping a low profile and I was rather quick on my feet if I dare say. But the Astra Militatum - the Imperial Guard - has all sorts of auspex scanners and servoskull snoops, to help them pick up intruders. Stealth only gets you so far against such countermeasures. And no matter how quick you are, you can't outrun or dodge lasbeams. So a bit of caution was in order, even with the mist cloaking me."

Because of the dense mist it's hard to accurately aestimate the size of the settlement. A five-million city? Maybe twice as large as that? You cannot tell for sure. Definitely below the twenty-mill mark. Not a very large city by any standard. No hive structures. Just a handful of two-hundred-plus-storey highrise structures protruding from the mist, near the city's core. No doubt the administrative and commercial heart of Thira. Several of the larger government buildings show clear signs of damage. A positively huge flag bearing the Imperial Aquila - the stylized two-headed eagle that represents the unity of mankind under the benevolent rule of the Imperium - flies from the topmost spire of one of the tallest, and most heavily damaged, buildings.

The extent of the damage is easier to ascertain than the size of the city: The city blocks Haxtes passes through haven't just been bombed and shelled from afar. Buildings and communal areas show clear signs of being blasted with close-support ordnance and are thoroughly riddled with small-arms fire. Entire quarters have been burned to the ground or explosively demolished. Taking the city clearly required an assault by massive Imperial ground forces, with all the mayhem that entrails: Roadblocks. Shattered buildings. Burned-out vehicles. Rubble and debris. Detritus and dead bodies. The Imperium may be in control, but the Protasians seem to have given them a run for their money.

"What happened?" you ask.

Haxtes ignores the question. "I was in a good mood. Summer was upon us again and the weather was favouring my expedition. It was also my ninth birthday. Well, at least I imagined it was my ninth birthday. I couldn't be entirely sure since we had no way of accurately keeping the time."

"So this was about a year after that last ski trip?" you venture.

"Not quite a full year, but close enough," Haxtes replies. "We were blissful in our ignorance, but even as we enjoyed our summer outing, elements of Battlefleet Calixis were underway to deal with Protasia. I don't know the official start date for the planetary assault, but I remember seeing the Imperial fleet settle into orbit in early autumn, like little darts of bright silver straddling the atmosphere, just after we had gone back to school for a new semester."

He continues. "My own timepiece had stopped working along with everyone else's after the Imperials knocked out the Grid. Jax had found an antique mechanical clock a few months before, but by then we had probably already mixed up the days. A while later the mechanical clock stopped working too. Try as we might we couldn't figure out how to get it to work again. There was a windup mechanism, but when we tried to turn it nothing much happened. There was too little resistance. The winding screw didn't connect properly to the spring or whatever it was that powered the clock. Jax took it apart one day when it rained too heavily to even contemplate going outside. That didn't help in the least. Inside were myriad little pieces too small to manipulate without proper tools."

Images of clockwork mechanisms flash before you. A few may be of the innards of a mechanical chronometer, but they majority are more complex...with some bordering on the improbably intricate. Did the tome just flash some weird, heretek clockwork blueprints at you?

Haxtes gives you a lop-sided grin. "So we went back to noting down the passage of days on a piece of paper. Eventually we stopped making marks. Days no longer had any meaning beyond getting to the next, so why bother keeping track of them?"

You get a fleeting glimpse of a townhouse, partially ruined and stripped of anything of value. Someone has tried to make a home out of it. There is a small promethium stove. A washing basin. Blankets. A few personal items. Not much. A far cry from the cosy house in the hills above the lake, but you're not overly moved. It just proves that loss is a relative thing; compared to your own childhood home it's a freaking palace, stuffed with wondrous treasures.

"Had Father been around he could have fixed the clock in no time," Haxtes says. "Not that he would have had any need for such a primitive timepiece. Father had a full cortex upgrade so he could function quite well without the Grid."

You decide to make another specific query. "Could you elaborate on this 'Grid' for me?" You're not so much interested in the information, as you are in seeing whether or not Vern will reappear.

"Of course. I'll even do it myself," Haxtes says. "No need to bother Vern." Again that smile that isn't a smile.


	15. CHAPTER 10 - GRIDLOCK

"The Grid is, or rather was, the name of the Protasian global network of personal dataslates, cogitators, logic engines, datavaults, transmission infrastructure, et al," Haxtes explains. "Such grids are found on many Imperial worlds. But of course there they are firmly controlled by the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Administratum, and the planetary authorities. On Protasia the grid was part of the public infrastructure, open and free for all to use." His voice trails off.

You're more than a little surprised to hear this. "A global communications network, open to all, without restriction? That is...very rare, to say the least."

It is well established that free communication is a key element in the spread of organized crime, treasonous activity, and outright heresy. All that knowledge, all that lore; it should have been closely monitored. What a decidedly unhealthy way of running an Imperial planet!

Haxtes' mouth becomes a grim line. "As I said: Protasia wasn't like most Imperial worlds. We had democracy. Civil liberties. A compulsory educational system. Free flow of information. Believe it or not, that's how things were arranged there."

You're still not convinced - and it probably shows.

"Seeing as how Protasia was branded heretical I think your assessment of 'unhealthy' sums it up rather nicely," Haxtes adds, his voice thick with sarcasm.

You decide to drop your objections - for now. You've learned what you wanted to know. The Haxtes persona can call up a wide range of information without recourse to Vern. The gatekeeper has his own repository of lore, separate from the deeper, heavily encrypted archive layers run by the Interrogator-Savant. You're not entirely sure where the line between them is drawn, but you'll continue to experiment until you find out.

Your host continues. "Almost all Protasians were connected to this grid through a small device we called a 'lock'. It usually took the form of a wristband or other compact wearable item such as a piece of jewellery. Inside was what amounts to a pretty complex dataslate with an integrated bit-link and cerebral interface."

"So not only did you have a free global grid, but you're claiming you were all carrying around miniaturized dataslates, voxlinks and mind impulse units, all rolled up into a package the size of a chronometer?" you say, sounding mildly incredulous. "And assuming that part is true, what about the receiving end? Did all Protasians receive a MIU graft as well?" you say sarcastically, knowing fully well that it cannot be the case. "If only some of this is true, I find it hard to believe the Rust Priests let you alone for so long!"

Haxtes gives you a flat look. "Rust Priests? Is that what you're calling the Cogheads these days? Cute. Thanks for sharing. Should be Oxidation Priests really; not many cover themselves with crude iron." Haxtes shrugs away his own attempt at humour. "A freely accessible Grid: Yes. Locks for all: Yes. Mind Impulse Units: Only partially. People like my father had a full MIU, but most citizens made do with a much simpler cerebral graft, keyed specifically to their lock."

"Go on," you say, still not believing his outlandish claims.

"The cerebral interface wasn't capable of the full direct mind-to-machine interface the way a true MIU is. It was more of an authentication device really, a form of advanced identification token if you will. Plus it could do some neat stuff, like accept a limited cerebral data transmission from the lock. Display the time and date inside your visual data stream for example, or play a symphony without recourse to any real sound."

"I see," you interject, "so the physical lock piece contained the transceiver and the cogitation unit. Correct?"

"Indeed. Among other things it made the cerebral interface a much less invasive addition. I still have mine," he taps his skull with one finger, "care to have a look?"

You raise your hand in a dismissive gesture. His offer for a physical examination is as pointless as it is worthless.

His hand returns to his glass. "With regards to the Honoured Representatives of the Machine God they got quite a bit out of Akakios' compliance back in the 39th Millennium. It was only a couple of thousand years later that the Lathes Mechanicus decided they wanted more," Haxtes adds.

The Lathes Mechanicus you're quite familiar with. The Lathe Worlds - Het, Hesh and Hadd - and the wonders they produce are famous far beyond the borders of Calixis sector. Without them there would be no exploration of the vast reaches of the Koronus Expanse, no Achilus Crusade, no Titan god-machines marching against the enemies of the Lord Sector. You cannot quite bring yourself to believe the enigmatic Archmagi of the Lathes would allow Protasia to retain control of all this technology.

Haxtes has a sip, puts down his glass. Silence descends. He scratches his chin while regarding you. "Look here Marcus," he finally says. "A suspicious mind is a healthy mind and all that. But you would do better if you listened more to what I have to say and think me a liar less."

You start to object, but you're cut off. "If Melbinious was here he would have you summarily executed for insolence. And at the rate we're going you won't be meeting him at all," Haxtes says with great pathos. "So what about we forget that this is just an advanced psychic recording and pretend you're actually a member of polite society?"

It not really a question, so you don't bother answering.

"Otherwise I see no point in continuing. The connection will terminate and you'll be locked out on a permanent basis. And you don't want that. Or?"

The rebuke is not entirely unexpected. You've been trying to see how far you can push the gatekeeper without provoking the tome's security measures. Now you know.

You shut up and sink back into your chair, glass of amasec in hand.

Haxtes continues. "I got my first lock when I was only six years old. A bit early, but as I've already told you my father was manufactorum management. Call it a perk of his position. The lock came in a purple box - purple used to be the colour Protasians used for anything important. It was a black wristband with a small square secondary display on top, beautifully engraved and decorated with clever patterns made of mother of pearl." You can see the scene quite clearly. "Father took it out and put it on my wrist, then removed a metal circlet from his desk and fitted it over my head." The circlet looks like such a simple thing, no more than a headband of steel. Nothing to betray its inner complexity.

"It settled there snuggly," Haxtes goes on, "and started to weave nano-tendrils into my cerebrum. The process took about half a day. I was slightly dizzy that day and developed a headache that lasted over the weekend. It was a week before the interface had fully matured and merged with my brain. After that it worked with a minimum of training on my part. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say it was useful in a million small ways. For telling the time. For finding out where you were and where you should go. For communicating with other people. For querying the infobanks. For paying your bills - not that a six-year old has any. For playing around."

You nod in understanding. It is still sort of hard to believe, but you suppose it could be true. True or not; you'll let the Haxtes persona keep talking. You've bantered him enough for now. Let him speak, while you continue to subtly probe the tome's defences and improve upon your own mental architecture.

"The locks were very reliable. They got their power from body heat and the kinetic energy generated by daily life and who knows what. They were, if not everlasting, at least very durable." He has a sip of amasec. "So you think they'd continue to work even after the attack. But it turned out they could not function without the Grid. Not for very long at any rate. So when the grid died the bit-links stopped feeding the locks with data packets, and like starved beast they first started misbehaving - and then they died." He taps his finger against the silver-crystal glass for emphasis, making it ring with a clear tone.

Relying too heavily on the mysteries of the Machine Cult is never a good idea. You prefer to trust in your own abilities, in the psychic superiority of the Evolved Man - the psyker.

"We didn't understand how much we had relied on them before they stopped working." He gives you a quizzical look. "Is that sufficient data on the Grid to sate your curiosity?"

"Yes, very much so," you reply. "Please continue your story." You keep it polite.


	16. CHAPTER 11 - PRIDE AND HERESY

Haxtes returns to the original topic. "Father had joined the Thira militia early on." You get a brief glimpse of his father dressing up as a soldier. "It was inevitable I guess. The situation with Mother would probably have forced him away eventually. But it was his wondrous biomechanical cortex that made him so valuable to Protasia's defenders."

Haxtes takes a moment to think. "Vern tried to explain it to me once, but it was all very complicated. The essence of it was that someone with such a cortex upgrade and come decent communications equipment could make the Grid work again - within the local area and for a limited number of locks. And these smaller grids could link together into bigger units if they could reach one another. It didn't help the rest of us one bit, but I've been told it did wonders for the defence effort."

You clear your throat to get his attention. "You have another question?" Haxtes asks.

"Indeed I do," you say. "I'm having trouble following the logic behind the Imperial reclamation effort." Which is absolutely true; it's not something you've come up with to manipulate the gatekeeper.

"I understand that Protasia was turned into a war zone, and from your previous comments I take it there was a great heresy. But the particulars elude me. What heresy could be so grand as to require such a massive military campaign?" Before he has time to reply you press on. "You mentioned your family had two unsanctioned psykers. Again I must ask: Was that the reason for this very direct and overwhelming Imperial intervention? Gross failure to observe the Articles of Unity by not handling the psyker population in an acceptable manner?"

Failing to handle a planet's psyker population is often a sign of greater troubles to come. Which is why several branches of the Adeptus Terra take a keen interest in the matter: The Administratum counts the psyker tithe just as rigorously as they do the rest of the God-Emperor's tribute. The Arbites are always monitoring the local population for signs of rogue psykers. And of course the Ordo Hereticus is heavily involved in all stages of the process, up to and including the transportation to Terra.

Haxtes looks at you calmly. "Does it matter? Protasia was declared heretical and a crusade was called. Or maybe Protasia rebelled and a crusade was called. The end result was the same. Destruction all around, before the inevitable recompliance was achieved." He looks you in the eye. "You did notice the rather largish Aquila flying over Forum building?"

"Yes, of course I saw the Aquila," you say with a degree of passion. "It's inevitable of course; the Imperium of Man always wins in the end. But it doesn't really make any sense," you exclaim. "The Imperium doesn't just go to war with itself for no reason. And no well-functioning world rebels since rebellion always leads to retribution. Only the truly desperate, the terminally stupid - or those who have fallen into heresy - would even think of rebellion."

Haxtes looks at you in a manner most condescending. "I've already given the reasons. On the Protasian side: Pride. Boundless pride. Heretical pride. On the Imperial side: Envy. Distrust. Greed. More than enough to go to war over. Entire civilizations have burned for far less."

You take a deep breath. "Pardon me, but it still doesn't make any sense," you object. "Every Imperial Governor I've ever met has been so full of himself that it classifies as 'boundless pride'."

You've met five of them in person, but only two knew who - or what - you were. Even those two had trouble behaving in a civilized manner towards an agent of the Inquisition. The other three were odious and self-centred in the extreme, but such is the privilege of a ruler who knows no superior but the God-Emperor.

"But that doesn't mean we purge him," you continue. "And the Imperium is full of envy and greed and distrust, but it's not allowed to grow into wars. What you're implying is analogous to what happened during the Age of Strife; Man fighting Man. The Great Crusade ended all that when it brought Unity to every human-held world. Now the Adeptus Terra is here to guarantee that such things do not happen again. It's called the Pax Imperialis - the Imperial Peace - for a reason."

"So much faith in the Imperium of Man, so much faith in peace in a galaxy that knows only war." The not-smile returns to Haxtes' face. "But back to topic. You can protest as much as you like, but war did come to Protasia, and it came in the form of a full-scale Imperial invasion - a reclamation crusade if you will."

You're not willing to be brushed aside so casually. "The Imperium has many tools that can be used to adjust the course of a wayward planet. It would not come to recompliance unless all other options were exhausted."

You plough on, preventing Haxtes from answering. "And this Edict of Obliteration you mentioned; was it issued at all? I may not have heard of Akakios. Protasia, however, I have seen mentioned in inventories over Calixian worlds."

"The Edict was issued all right," Haxtes replies, "but the Calixian Inquisitors are smarter than you give them credit for. Protasia wasn't subjected to Exterminatus. The world still lived and breathed. Instead of providing it with a whole new identity, the wise Lords of the Calixian Conclave chose to delete only those parts of Protasia's past that were troublesome: Everything pertaining to Akakios and the distant past. Any mention of the planet as an Imperial world prior to Grimes' rule. If you doubt me, just look it up."

"You can be certain that I will," you reply heatedly. "We're in a librarium. You can be very sure I'll check your story."

The observing part of your mind coolly concludes that the interactive part of your mind has been left with too much emotional capacity. That's why you've been so uncharacteristically passionate and unfocused in your dealings with the gatekeeper.

First the mind reading, then the emergence of lost memories, and now this. All of this needs to be remedied. If you cannot control yourself, you will not be able to manipulate the tome properly.

While you start rearrange your mental architecture, your interactive mind continues along the same vein. "Yes, the Imperium has the power to crush worlds. But that power is not let slip unless there is absolutely no other solution. Otherwise the worlds of the Imperium would be all ruins. And ruins don't generate much in the way of a tithe. Protasia wouldn't just rebel, no matter how smug its inhabitants. And the Imperium wouldn't invade just because Protasians are full of themselves. There has to be more to this than meets the eye."

"Well, there is always more than meets the eye, isn't there?" Haxtes sighs and slumps back in the chair. "I don't like repeating myself," his voice is cool and even, "not one bit. If we are to indulge your conspirational temperament I am going to require assistance." He shifts forward in his seat. "Vern. If you please."


	17. CHAPTER 12 - GUNBOAT DIPLOMACY

Vern's voice, from behind your chair. "The exact reasons leading up to the war are not all that important. Nor do we have all the details. The devastation caused by the war and the Edict of Obliteration that followed means that the 'truth' - if such a thing can objectively be said to exist - will never be known. As Haxtes says, the important thing is that war did happen. But since you requested it specifically, I have compiled a brief overview of the pre-war situation. Perhaps it will answer some of your questions."

Haxtes closes his eyes, a pained expression upon his face.

You crane your neck around to look at Vern, catching him as he steps out of the darkness and into the circle of light. You give him a nod in greeting, then settle back down and have another go at your amasec. It is interesting to note that Vern seems to appear whenever something needs explaining that lies outside of Haxtes' personal experience. You file that piece of information away for later.

"There had been mounting tensions for a while. It came to a head when the Imperium sent a delegation to Protasia under Ambassador-General Bracchus Eiden. A fairly large diplomatic delegation, backed up by a newly tithed regiment of Malfian Guards, carried aboard the Imperial Navy heavy cruiser Terrible Retribution, Hades-class, out of Port Wander."

A great metal behemoth, five kilometres long and massing millions of tons, glides past. Gun ports are open, revealing row upon row of heavy guns arranged down its flanks. Lance turrets the size of city blocks crown the vessel, giving the venerable voidship a predatory look.

"Classic Adeptus Terra gunboat diplomacy," Vern concludes, "one of the 'many tools' you mentioned." He rubs his facial Aquila electoo a little before continuing, causing the myriad little points of light to ripple like running water caught in moonlight.

"That only provoked the prideful-as-hell Protasians. It went downhill from there. The Senate of the People of Protasia decided to circumvent the sector level of the Adepta altogether and petitioned the High Lords of Terra directly for a settlement of their grievances. According to the Senate of Protasia they had this right by ancient charter. According to Sector Commander Lord Marius Hax they did not," Vern says gravely and lets his hands fall.

"Be that as it may. No reply was ever received, because there was an incident with the delegation," Vern says, adding a little pause at the end for dramatic emphasis.

You can see where this is going.

Vern goes on to confirm your suspicions. "No one knows who fired the first shot, but the Protasians sure fired the last. Before the destruction of his command the Ambassador-General managed to get out an astropathic signal. The Malfian Rimward Command responded quickly. Soon an entire Imperial Navy fleet was underway, carrying sixty or so division-equivalents of Imperial Guards."

Depending on their constituent regiments that is somewhere between one and two million men; a respectable invasion force when backed by the might of the Imperial Navy.

"The divisions had been scrounged up, primarily from worlds in the Malfian and Drusus Marches subsectors, in what was the biggest mustering the Calixis sector had seen in many years," Vern adds.

"I'm reasonably familiar with Calixian history," you interrupt.

Which is probably an understatement; while you're no master savant, you are more than passingly familiar with the major Calixian events of the 41st Millennium.

"I was under the impression that there were numerous musterings during that period of time," you continue. "In support of the Spinward Front, the Margins Crusade, the Fydae Expeditions, and other military efforts. But I recall no mention of this great mustering to reclaim Protasia. So this is somewhat surprising." You forgo calling his claim an outright lie, merely ad it to the list of things you'll look up when you have the opportunity.

Vern picks up smoothly. "Not at all. The Margin Worlds were actually the intended destination of the divisions, the pretext under which they had been formed in the first place. A final attempt at salvaging that unfortunate crusade. It was the only way people like Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus of the Malfian Rimward Command could persuade the Department Munitorum to equip and transport so many new divisions."

Haxtes interjects. "But when Protasia rebelled the divisions were retasked. How opportune that Protasia should rebel at just that time. The regiments had formed, the divisions were ready for deployment, the transport ships were there to carry them, and the escorts were already assembled. How very opportune."

"So you're saying that this was orchestrated by the Malfian Rim Command?" you ask. "That Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus sacrificed an ageing cruiser, a regiment of Imperial Guards, and a retired general to create the pretext for an invasion?" You let doubt bleed into your voice to accentuate your lack of faith in this analysis. "So the Protasians weren't rebels or heretics, but victims of Malfian plotting?"

"If so they wouldn't be the first; the Malfians are rightly infamous for their insidious ways. But no," Vern shakes his head gently, "that is not what I am saying. Haxtes is the conspirator here," he says, bobbing his head slightly in the gatekeeper's direction. "But as Haxtes already pointed out: The Protasians had it coming, one way or the other. If they weren't openly heretical before the recompliance effort, the Imperium was entirely vindicated as soon as the Senate of the People of Protasia proved unwilling to surrender to the authority of Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus. No matter how wronged you may feel, you must submit to the demands of the Adeptus Terra. To do otherwise is not only to admit guilt; it is to admit heresy."

Vern does get wordy at times. You have to agree with Haxtes there. He has a way of explaining things without really explaining anything. To his credit he isn't the first savant you've met that has trouble relating to laymen. He is, however, the first one to mix preaching with dry fact.

"Protasia was wrong. The Imperium was right. The Imperium is always right. That's what I'm saying." Vern steps forward to stand next to you. "I'm also saying that the Imperium prepared for this eventuality and made its move when the time was right."

Better. Short and to the point. Things are beginning to make some sense. Not a lot of sense yet, but steadily improving.

Haxtes interjects once more. "The Imperium did make one mistake though. It badly miscalculated the willingness - and ability - of Protasia to fight back. It seems that Lord Hax and Lord-Marshal Maximus had forgotten a few important lessons of history. One: That Protasians were proud beyond measure. Two: That they were perfectly capable of keeping all comers at bay, as testified by Protasian survival of the Age of Strife. Three: That they had technology that even the Lathes Mechanicus envied them."

Vern remains silent, facing Haxtes and waiting for the opportunity to resume his speech.

"The rebellion was supposed to be crushed with one fell blow." Haxtes thumps his right fist on the desktop. "Then there would be purges, new management, and a period of dissent before things calmed down over the course of a few generations. But there wasn't supposed to be any widespread destruction. Kick in the door with enough force to make the malcontents cower in fear." A wicked parody of a smile appears on Haxtes face. "Only it didn't work out quite that way," he says, then falls silent.

Vern takes over, turning to address you directly. "Trouble began in space. Orbital defences had already destroyed one Imperial heavy cruiser. Then the system defence ships of Protasia turned out to have more potency than even the most pessimistic Navy planners had allowed for. The Imperial battleship Corda Furorum - the Heart of Fury - was destroyed during the initial stages of the operation. Six battlecruisers were heavily damaged and had to be withdrawn. Numerous lesser vessels were either destroyed or reduced to barely-functioning hulks."

You watch as the Imperial flagship approaches Protasian orbit, pushing through the debris field left by an earlier battle between the Imperial vanguard and Protasia's orbital defence grid. The battleship is screened by no less than six graceful, yet lethal battlecruisers. If the cruiser you glimpsed earlier was impressive, this massive ship leaves you properly awed. If you are not mistaken it is a Retribution-class vessel, one of the most powerful ships in the Imperial arsenal. For one to be destroyed almost defies imagination.

Yet here you are, watching as system defence craft come swarming over the edge of the blue disk that is Protasia. Except for three ships none are much bigger than a frigate, but there are at least three dozen of them. The Imperial battlecruisers, two Orions and four locally produced Chalices, move to intercept. A furious exchange of fire follows, revealing that the smaller Protasian vessels are far better shielded and armed than they have any right to be.

Soon the two battlecruiser squadrons have lost formation and been dragged into a chaotic melee at point-blank range. The Corda Furorum closes to support its screening vessels, only to discover that a handful of the enemy ships are bearing down on it, as if they had planned for this all along.

The Protasian ships do not fire; they just race forward at flank speed, void shields at maximum load. The battleship immediately starts retasking its guns and begins a hard turn to port. It takes a while for both orders to take effect, allowing the smaller enemy ships to close the gap. The Corda Furorum finally opens up, destroying first one enemy ship, then two more as gunners adjust their tracking auguries.

But it is too late; there is no more time to fire. The final four Protasian fireships slam into the side of the metal leviathan, triggering a cascade of unbelievably potent explosions. The glare is such that you have to cover your eyes. When next you look the Corda Furorum has been reduced from a proud Imperial battleship to a great piece of twisted, glowing metal.

Trouble. That's as big an understatement as you've ever heard.

"The loss of even a single battleship must have been galling. The Calixian sector fleet doesn't have many of those," you say.

Vern nods. "Indeed. At the time there were only four such vessels available to Battlefleet Calixis. The bulk of the sector's naval assets are made up of lighter vessels, from battlecruisers and down."

"Actually, Admiral Nakemi, who miraculously survived the destruction of her flagship, committed suicide with her service pistol rather than face court martial over the loss of such a valuable vessel," Haxtes replies. "Very civilized, don't you think?"

Vern continues. "Yet despite the stiff resistance the Imperial Navy had accomplished it mission: The gargantuan Munitorum troop conveyors were largely intact and in low orbit. They immediately started to drop sixty division-equivalents of Imperial Guards onto the surface, opening up three major bridgeheads and securing key sites planet-wide."

You now have a ringside seat of the Imperial landing operation. Wrecked ships and destroyed orbitals frame the scene as mammoth troopships move into low orbit and start disgorging their cargoes. As you watch one of the troop carriers is hit repeatedly by surface-based defence lasers. Only a fraction of the regiments aboard get out before the ship breaks apart and tumbles helplessly into the atmosphere.

Vern keeps talking. "Losses to enemy naval assets, orbital defence grids, planetary defence batteries, and anti-landing assets were higher than expected. Fully twenty percent of the invasion force was destroyed before they had even set foot upon Protasian soil. That's a quarter of a million casualties, most of them fatalities given the high-risk profile of planetary assault missions."

Your view follows the space-grey-and-sky-blue Devourer assault landers of a Vaxanide light infantry regiment down to the surface. It is beyond intense; a descent down into the fiery furnace of destruction. First up are multiple squadrons of a heavy Thunderbolt interceptor variant, then the high-altitude Maelstrom anti-aerospace missile batteries, then swarms of smaller Lightning fighters, before finally you pass through a veritable wall of close-range fire from point-defence Hydra batteries. At least half the landers are destroyed before they reach their designated landing zones. You're no military man, but you can still see that the landing operation is a complete mess.

One of the Devourers you've followed almost makes it down: Only a few hundred meters remain, when a flight of enemy Lightnings flash by, almost too fast to register. Lasbeams and autocannon tracers flash back and forth between the lander and the fighters. One of the lithe fighter craft blows apart in a great ball of fire. The Devourer seems strangely untouched; for a few seconds you think it has passed safely through the gauntlet, but it never pulls up for final approach, just continues downward until it plunges head first into the landing zone. There are no survivors.

Vern has gotten warmed up and is now speaking rather quickly. "Despite stiff resistance the Imperial Guard reached its initial bridgehead objectives within a fortnight. The advance ground to a halt shortly thereafter, as dwindling troop densities made further advances impractical. Lord-Marshal Maximus was forced to send an astropathic plea for aid to the Calixian Central High Command. He needed more ships from the Port Wrath Battlefleet Reserve and another two hundred and forty divisions according to his aestimates. In the end he got his reinforcements, but it cost him his command. He was forced into semi-retirement on his Quaddis estates while sycophants from the Lucid Palace swarmed in to fill the void."

The final images of freshly debarked Guard formations moving out across Protasia fade to black.

Haxtes. "I think that's enough background Vern. We really need to move the story forward."

Vern ploughs on. "You got me started. Now let me finish," causing Haxtes to shake his head and return to his drink. The third one thus far. He was definitely fond of drink in real life.

"While Maximus and the Imperials sat waiting for reinforcements the Protasians proceeded to strike back. Hard." Vern makes a chopping motion with his right hand to underline his point.

You bring up a question. "But the Imperials surely had total space dominance and aerospace supremacy at this point. What could the Protasians do beyond urban insurgency and guerrilla warfare?"

A grin creeps onto Vern's face. He's really enjoying the chance to speak to an audience. "Well, that's the catch. The answer is: They didn't have space dominance. Not for long anyway. The Protasian system defence fleet and the anti-orbital defences had indeed been neutralized, but hearing of the plight of their homeworld Protasian merchantmen began returning home to join the rebellion. And back in the day Protasia had quite the extensive merchant marine; to the great annoyance of the sector's great Guilds Commercia."

"And what use are merchantmen against squadrons of the line?" you ask.

Vern. "Those merchantmen were universally heavily armed and quite combat capable. No Imperial world is ever allowed to maintain its own warp-capable navy. That goes without saying. But a merchant marine is another matter entirely," he says, setting the stage for your reply.

"But merchantmen are not supposed to be warships in disguise," you say, "sort of defies the idea that warp-capable warships should belong to the Imperial Navy."

Vern. "Usually not. The Lucid Court and the Malfian Command would both later claim this as another sign of Protasian treason. But to be fair there existed an old treaty that allowed Protasia great freedoms when it came to its merchant marine. Including the right to build and maintain its vessel according to old standard construct templates. Templates which included an awful lot of military-grade weapons and other restricted equipment."

You get to witness two Imperial Sword-class frigates on perimeter patrol confront a mid-sized Protasian merchantman. To their captains' great surprise they are confronted by long-range lance fire from the Protasian ship. One of the frigates suffers heavy damage to its engines and falls out of formation, leaving its companion to face the larger Protasian vessel. The range has closed and the Sword-class returns fire, cutting though the enemy's void shields and scoring several telling hits. A vicious knife-range fight develops, with the Sword trying to manoeuvre for advantage, while the less agile Protasian tries to finish it off with lance fire. In the end firepower beats acrobatics - two lance beams briefly intersect the frigate at the same time, shearing the main hull clear in half. The scene ends with the crippled merchantman lumbering away, pursued by the hamstrung frigate.

"That's how Protasia survived for all those years alone in the dark; they had a real fleet before the imperium came. And they retained some of it after Unity," you conclude.

The smile on Vern's face widens in response to your conclusion. "Indeed, they had a very powerful fleet, optimized for system defence. I digress, but here is a fun fact: The treaties were Mechanicus-approved. The Archmagi of the Lathes had gotten access to the Protasian STC fragments and in return they had guaranteed their right to continue to use those same templates."

"Vern. Please. No digressions or we'll never get through this," Haxtes exclaims with a certain amount of disgust audible in his voice. "The greed of the Mechanicus has already been mentioned."

"Very well. But I'd like it note that if you had listened more to my briefings you would have save yourself a lot of trouble," says chidingly.

Haxtes scratches his beard. "Yes. I know," an expression, of regret perhaps, has crept onto his face. "Too much drinking, whoring, and killing -and too little listening...but it's a little too late to chastise me for that."

For a moment Vern seems lost in remembrance. Then he continues in a more sombre tone. "So there was no space dominance. And no aerospace supremacy either. With space at least somewhat contested the Protasians were able to continue aerospace operations from hidden, well-protected launch facilities."

You watch as Thunderbolts in fighter-bomber configuration blast off from cunningly hidden mountainside launch chutes. They pick up an escort of much faster and more agile Lighting fighters, then head for distant Imperial targets.

"The Protasians made life difficult for the Imperial Navy for a long time. Not just in-system, but also by disrupting Imperial lines of communications. There were raids as far away as the Golgenna Reach. And of course other enemies of the Imperium were quick to pounce when they sensed an opportunity. Caused all sorts of trouble, all over the sector."

Inside your inner sanctum you take time to contemplate this last bit of information. There were only a few times during the latter half of the 41st millennium that there were any widespread disturbances sectorwide in Calixis. So that means the Protasian rebellion was either early 9th century or very late 8th century. Earlier dates are ruled out since the Margin Crusade was launched only towards the end of the 8th century M41.

But assuming your aestimae is correct another problem arises: Inquisitor Melbinious was active in the 7th Century, of that you're absolutely, one hundred per cent, certain. At least a hundred years, possibly as much as two hundred, would seem to separate Melbinious and this Haxtes fellow.

There are some serious discrepancies here. Do they lie with Haxtes' story, or is there something as yet to be revealed, that will shed light on this conundrum? Perhaps Haxtes' story isn't as unimportant as you have believed. Should you give it more attention than you have thus far? You're a bit divided over that point, but the prudent thing to do is to bide your time and continue to play along. The Imperium wasn't built in a day.


	18. CHAPTER 13 - RECOMPLINACE

"...but back to the planet itself," Vern drones on. "Protasia had around two and a half billion inhabitants scattered across its surface. No true hive cities, just a number of larger urban sprawls, some of which included a number of ancient hive-like arcologies."

By the look of them you conclude that those arcologies date back to the Dark Age of Technology. Given what you've learned of Akakios-Protasia thus far you're not surprised. Human colonists really did make it all the way out to the edge of the galaxy to settle there.

"Except for the old arcologies these urban areas were all very vulnerable to strategic yield weapons, but none had been deployed as the Imperials were counting on their shock-and-awe strategy to win the day," Vern says, sounding a bit sad.

Strategic yield ordnance is also bad if you want to take stuff intact. You can sense the battle planners had been given orders to the effect - no strategic weapons, but an endless supply of bodies for the meat grinder.

Vern sighs. "It did not work. The invasion lost momentum after a few weeks. Another few weeks and it were the invaders who found themselves under attack. I've estimated the Protasian PDF - the Planetary Defence Force - to have numbered around 2.5 million men. Mind you, these forces were even more scattered than the attackers, and much of their command structure had already been taken out. Nevertheless one of the Imperial bridgeheads was quickly overrun. When a second bridgehead looked like it too would be destroyed, Maximus was forced to deploy strategic weapons just to keep his landing forces intact. Thermonuclear deep penetrator warheads rained down on suspected Protasian command posts, plasmatic incinerator area denial weapons scorched entire counties, 'precision' lance strikes devastated large swathes of urban areas - the list goes on. The Imperials held on to their two remaining bridgeheads, but civilian casualties ran in the millions."

If the powers-that-be really wanted Protasia intact, that was a very bold move on the part of the Imperial commander. Even if he 'won' the campaign, his career would be dead. Actually he'd be lucky if his career was the only part of him that was made to die.

"The Protasians, their pride already wounded, were first horrified, then incensed. The gloves came off and they rolled out their own weapons of mass destruction. In particular their precision anti-matter warhead strikes caused the Imperials a great deal of grief in terms of dead soldiers and destroyed war machines." Vern's voice has grown soft and solemn.

Anti-matter. That explains the potency of the fireships. You wonder what other technological terrors the Protasians were hiding on their so-called paradise world. You're beginning to think Vern was right - the Protasians should have been dealt with more severely during initial Compliance.

Vern continues, still in a sombre tone. "The war entered a new and more brutal phase. Six months later the civilian death toll had risen by a factor of ten. And the second of three bridgeheads had been wiped out. Only the timely arrival of additional fleet elements - and their indiscriminate broadside barrages and scores of merciless aerospace fighter-bomber wings - saved the last bridgehead from total annihilation. The Protasians would continue to try, but the moment had passed. The last bridgehead was secure, and week by week more divisions began to filter into the system and down to the surface."

So Maximus made the right choice after all - as the military commander. Too bad he'd receive no praise for it.

Vern. "None too soon I might add, since of the original sixty divisions, only one man in five still lived."

Vern has a tendency to fidget when he speaks; touching his facial Aquila, rubbing the edge of his cranial implant, or simply stroking the sleeves and patterns of his robes. It's mildly distracting. You've yet to discern any particular pattern to it. Perhaps it is nothing, but you will continue to analyse his movements, just in case there is a tell hidden within his fidgeting.

Vern. "Along with new soldiers came new leaders. General Maximus was sent packing and the new men took command."

Of course he was. One must always have a scape-goat under such circumstances. It is never the Adeptus Terra that is in the wrong; to even imply such a thing is to imply that the God-Emperor is fallible. Inside your inner sanctum you shake your head. You see yourself as pious and puritanical both, but you are also an educated and illuminated man, a servant of the Holy Orders of the Inquisition. The God-Emperor is your god and saviour, but too well you know how fallible man can be. Of course the Adeptus Terra can be wrong. They are but men, trying to implement the Will of God. They mean well, but sometimes they get it wrong.

"Men straight from the upper strata of the Lucid Palace. Men like Marshal Grimes, Commissar-General Verrigan, and Prelate Zukhov," Haxtes suddenly interjects.

"Verrigan?" you ask, "Would that be Skull-Taker Verrigan? The very same man that was hunted by the Holy Ordos, across the length and breadth of Segmentum Obscurus? The one that required the intervention of the Chamber Militant of the Ordo Malleus to terminate?"

"One and the same," Haxtes notes drily. "Quite the slippery bugger that one." He chuckles a bit at that, but the joke is lost on you. "But that great manhunt came a good while after the Protasian affair, and it wasn't the Ordo Malleus that got him in the end."

You find yourself wishing you had more details on Verrigan. You know of him of course - his infamy is considerable, even this long after his death - but you've never been privy to the Ordo Malleus files on him. So concrete facts are few and far between, but you do know that he was active during the 9th century M41.

Vern interrupts your musings. "With great enthusiasm the new brass fell upon the defenders with two hundred and forty new divisions and the God-Emperor knows how many engines of war. They had even secured the aid of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Adeptus Astartes. One full cohort of Legio Venator battle titans and their supporting elements, one company of marines from the native Storm Wardens chapter, and a larger force from the rather famous Tigers Argent, straight out of the Icefang, down in the Finial sector. The Tigers had even brought their mighty battle barge, the Argent Majestic, complete with teleportariums and a contingent of Astartes terminators."

Indeed. The Tigers Argent are rather famous. Chapter Master Charon has led them from glorious victory to glorious victory for centuries. They've something of a reputation all the way down to the Mandragora sector. On a more personal level you've had the great honour of liaising with Captain Eos of the Tigers Argent's 7th Company, during the Rambach insurrection. But you've never heard a reference to a Protasian campaign.

Vern launches into a lengthy monologue. "Unfortunately for the Imperials it had taken too long to assemble this force, allowing the Protasians to fully mobilize. The last bridgehead had been saved, but five million Imperial Guards now faced at least twenty million Protasian soldiers, plus an unknown number of local militia. Even with aerospace supremacy, and many more heavy guns and tanks, they faced a very grim reality. Despite the exuberance displayed by the senior command echelon, actual gains were hard-won and more often than not preceded by massive bombardments and deployment of low-yield strategic weapons. The Protasians on their hand adopted a scorched earth policy. The level of general destruction and civilian casualties escalated yet again. And despite affecting a steady advance the Imperial forces gained very little except more casualties, burned fields and broken cities. And the worst was yet to come," he says with a flourish.

"For the love of Terra, Vern! Information, yes. Melodrama, no. Get on with it." Haxtes is getting impatient.

"Very well. The short and boring version then." Vern shifts to a more prosaic stanza. "With the moral support of Verrigan and Zukhov, Marshal Grimes formulated a new strategy: If the enemy was just going to destroy everything, the Imperium would not waste any more lives trying to take territory. Instead there would be a massive campaign of strategic bombardment, combined by an unrelenting sting of spearpoint strikes by the Angels of Death."

More images form in the dark. Torrents for destruction launched from orbit. Utterly devastating against the civilian population, less effective against concealed and dug-in infantry. The only saving grace; only weapons with limited half-lives were used. Looks like the new leaders still wanted to keep the planet afterwards.

Vern goes on. "The campaign had three goals. One: To destroy that which the Imperium could not take intact, meaning about eighty percent of the planet, according to Grimes' savants and planning officers. Two: To decapitate civilian and military decision-making processes, thereby making final victory a walk in the park. Three: To utterly demoralize the survivors and thus ensure docile compliance once the planet had been subjugated."

Before your inner eye you see Grimes and his staff crouched over multi-dimensional hololitich display tanks, trying to grapple with the endless variables of a planetary invasion of this scale.

"The first goal was achieved readily enough. Sixty percent of urban Protasia burned. Hundreds of millions died as a direct result of the strikes," Vern pauses for effect, "but the final death toll from starvation, exposure, and disease was much, much higher."

Flashing images of death and destruction on a grand scale. Intermixed with scenes of personal suffering - a mother cradling her dead child, a squad of Guardsmen brutally murdered in the dark, a young girl hauled screaming into a black-painted Chimera APCs with Commissariat markings.

Vern backs away a few steps. "The second goal was harder, but the Astartes are nothing if not good at killing. Combined with the utter devastation brought on by the bombardment phase it effectively put an end to large-scale organized resistance. But there was to be no walk in the park. Protasian insurgents continued to fight the Imperials every step of the way. They continued fighting even when areas should had been pacified. In they own way they were as fanatical in their dedication as any given heretic."

You watch Astartes in silver, black and white livery, butchering Protasian soldiers in a wide range of combat situations. The result is always the same though, swift and brutal victory for the Angels of Death.

"And as for the third goal that didn't turn out so well either. Those areas that had not been scourged had still been heavily scarred by the ground war. The population had been devastated and the industrial base shot to hell. There was compliance of sorts, but only on the surface. Underneath the locals continued to resist. Acts of terrorism became the norm. Supporting insurgents a part of Protasian culture. Hatred for the invaders they learned at the teat." As he speaks Vern moves over to the side of the desk, planting his palms of the desktop and looking intently at Haxtes.

Haxtes, in a low growling tone. "Vern..."

Vern ignores him, turning back to face you. "Since losing one of the Emperor's planets a second time would be completely intolerable, the Guard divisions were forced to remain to garrison the place. There was simply no other way compliance could be enforced over time. And time it would take: The Administratum aestimated a minimum of five generations - provided that sufficient settlers could be brought in to replace the dead, which didn't seem very likely given the planet's state. Further delays were expected given the near total destruction of the planet's infrastructure, and the unwillingness of the Adeptus Mechanicus to support the rebuilding. You see, the Cult of Sollex..."

Haxtes interrupts. "There is a limit to my patience Vern. You will not start blabbering about Mechanicus politics. I won't have it. Get back to subject. Now."

Vern, a little flustered perhaps, but back on track. "Yes, well, since new settlers would be few in numbers another solution was chosen. The guardsmen were given settlement rights. It's common enough. They fight, they die, and the survivors get to become settlers. It's a harsh life, but generally preferable to being reconstituted and sent to a new warzone. Now, the bulk of Guard units are made up of men, so..."

Haxtes, soft, but firm now. "Vern..."

"Yes, yes. It's a really interesting piece of history you know. Shame to fast forward." Vern seems about to go off on a tangent again, but adjusts his course at the last minute. "Marshal Grimes was named as the Imperial Commander of Protasia. He took the name Grimes I after his inauguration, indicating his intent to begin a dynasty of planetary governors. Verrigan got made into Grimes' First Minister. It is exceedingly rare for a Commissar to leave Imperial service, but in Verrigan's case it was allowed. Prelate Zukhov was appointed to become Protasia's new religious leader by the Cardinals of Calixis. They seemed to think he and his Sororitas had made an exemplary effort in reconsecrating the soil of Protasia."

"That explains a few things," you reply, "including why Protasia was listed as a frontier world in the ledgers I perused. With such widespread destruction the world had to be rebuilt almost from scratch."

"That may well be," Vern nods, "it is usually some time before a war world can be reclassified as an Imperial world. Especially one so devastated as Protasia. In the interregnum it would be classified as a frontier world to ensure a proper tithe grade."

You decide to fish for a date by supplying a piece of trivia. "The House of Grimes once again rules as Imperial Commanders. Despite the efforts of Skull-Taker Verrigan one of Grimes' children lived, and sired descendants of his own. In time one of them learned of his birthright, secured support from the Lucid Palace, and returned to Protasia to claim his Governorship."

"Interesting information," Vern says politely, "but I already knew."

You curiosity is piqued. "So the tome was constructed, not only post-Verrigan, but after the return of the lost scion of the House of Grimes?" you ask. Confirmation will help narrow down the tome's creation date.

Haxtes fouls the moment. "Either that - or one of the others told us," he says, adding smugness to his voice for good measure.

You probably shouldn't rise to the bait, but you do so anyway. "Others? You mean other readers? Before me?" you ask.

Haxtes smugness is gone when he answers. "Yes. Others. Readers. Before you." He has a sip of amasec and adds: "You're not my first, you know."

"And may I ask what became of these other readers?" you say. You might as well follow up now that you've started this line of inquiry.

"You may," Haxtes answer. "I'll even answer. They went away. All of them. All of them went away, without drinking from the fountain of youth." He gestures for Vern to resume.

Vern quickly picks up where he left off. "Protasia was broken up into lesser fiefs, with high-ranking officers and Lucid Palace sycophants appointed as rulers. Then each newly made noble took what men remained to him and set about trying to set up a functioning society. How well that went varied quite a bit. Some actually succeeded. Others didn't do quite as well, whilst yet others just took the opportunity to rape and pillage their newly won lands. Later down the road these guardsmen-turned-settlers would quarrel and fight among one another, and Verrigan would go rogue, but that's a whole other story," he says, pre-empting any interruptions from his companion.

"And that," he looks over at Haxtes, "is the story of how Protasia rebelled and was crushed by His Divine Majesty's inexhaustible armies."

Haxtes' supplies some on-the-ground intelligence. "As you've no doubt surmised Thira wasn't among the strategic yield targets. It sat on a rather nice part of real estate, so the Imperials thought to keep it intact. They had to fight for it though, same as everywhere else. But by and large the destruction was limited to conventional bombs, shells, and the collateral caused when armoured regiments try to dig out a determined and well-entrenched opponent from an urban area."

Vern nods solemnly. "That concludes my very brief introduction to Protasia." Without further fanfare he turns about face, takes a couple of steps and is gone from the ring of light.

The actual information Vern provided is of little use to you - but now you know for certain you can call him back, and have him answer other questions. That is useful information to you. Right now, however, you do not seem to have the level of access needed to actively request the forbidden lore this tome holds. It seems you will have to spend some more time with Haxtes to convince him to let you delve deeper. And the other readers, the ones that came before and were turned away; you'd like to know more about them.

You return your attention to your host. "Shall we continue?" you say, voice heavy with politeness, and raise your glass to your lips.


	19. INTERLUDE - THE PREACHER

His papers identified him as Preacher Molevoch, but that wasn't his real name. Molevoch was just the name of the Missionaria Galaxia preacher whose identity he had assumed. After the Imperials had gained the upper hand on Protasia it became something of a necessity to be part of the winning team. A Galaxia preacher was a nice cover, since moving around and sticking your nose where it didn't belong was part of the job description.

Such was the power of the sorcerous rite he'd employed to steal the preacher's identity, that for all intents and purposes he'd become him. If he looked like the preacher, talked and acted like the preacher, had most of the preacher's memories, and his papers said he was the preacher, it followed that he must be the preacher.

Indeed, if someone had scanned him with an auspex they would have found nothing untoward. Even a full screening test would not breach his cover. Only a trained psyker, such as an anointed Inquisition psi-legate, would have any chance at all of seeing through his cover. But there were no snooping legates here, not anymore, his empyrean allies had told him as much.

The Preacher was standing in the hill country outside of Thira. The sun was setting, but there was still light enough to see by. From this distance the city looked eerily untouched by the war. Very much unlike the other regions he'd been through. Then it was true, what he had heard whispered; First Minister Verrigan was going to make this place his seat of power.

Verrigan, damned be his dark soul! If any one person was to blame for all this, it would be him. The Preacher sincerely hoped that Verrigan would slip up and disappoint his master, fail to deliver on the bloody promises he'd no doubt made. Fail, and end up as just another skull beneath the crushing weight of the Skull Throne. Damn Verrigan, damn all the bloody followers of Khorne.

Things had been going so well here on Protasia. From that time, long ago, when the first of the Brethren of the Word had taken passage upon a Protasian merchantman, and all the way up to the present: Slowly, but surely the Word had spread. First to a few select members of the ship's complement, then on to their relatives and relations on the planet. From there the web had slowly grown, spreading out across the surface of Protasia, and finally onto other ships of the Protasian Merchant Marine. Those ships had in turn carried the Word to other, distant planets of the Calixis Sector.

Everything had been done in accordance with the Will of the Prophet of Light: Always in secret, always careful not to attract the attention of the Imperium in general, and the hated Inquisition in particular. The Word repeatedly stressed the need for secrecy and caution. The Brethren must never be exposed; the Word must never fall into the hands of the nonbelievers. Not until the day of the Second Coming - the promised End Times, when the True Gods would send their Prophet back to lead the Brethren against the followers of the Corpse-God.

But the Imperium had known anyway. He didn't know how they had learned, only that they had. Maybe they didn't know any particulars, but had simply learned enough to begin to take an entirely unwanted interest in the Word and the practices of the Brethren. Learned enough to become afraid; enough so that they had alerted the Accursed Orders of the Corpse-God's Inquisition.

The Deacons of Light had been forced to convene - in direct contravention to established dogma - to deal with the threat of an Imperial intervention. It had been an exhausting affair. To the Brethren the Deacons always presented a unified front, but between themselves they frequently disagreed. Molevoch hadn't been overly optimistic, but took it as a good sign, all things considered, that his peers had been willing to come together at all.

After days of heated debate - and the ritualistic murder-sacrifice of the Deacons most vocal in their opposition - they had eventually agreed to suspend off-world operations, to cut the ties to those Brethren living on other worlds. They would also rescind all contact with one another, reverting to the isolated congregations the strictest interpretation of the Word dictated.

Molevoch had approved. Should the Imperium come, the Inquisition would follow. Under no circumstances must they be allowed to trace a connection from one congregation to another. Things had gone so well, the Word had spread far and wide, gaining countless adherents scattered across Protasia and beyond. Call it enthusiasm. Call it zeal. Call it hubris. Call it whatever you liked; they had created a glorious Church of the Word, but now their very success threatened the survival of the Word. If they were to survive they must adapt; they must separate and hope that in isolation salvation could be found.

It might have worked, save that the headstrong Protasians had done something quite unexpected. They had rebelled. None of the Deacons had anticipated that, not even the ones that maintained lives in the higher strata of Protasian society.

Rebellion against the Imperium always brought retribution. Retribution in the form of a reclamation campaign. A campaign that quickly spiralled out of control and left Protasian and war-torn wasteland. As a result the Deacons would never know if their efforts would have been sufficient to keep the Inquisition in the dark: Most of them were dead, alongside the majority of the Brethren. Killed by conventional warfare, strategic weapons, or the hardships that followed on the heels of planet-wide war.

As far as Molevoch knew, he was the last Deacon left on Protasia and he was all out of Brethren to guide. The last two members of his failing congregation had given their lives to fuel the ritual that provided him with his current identity. Molevoch didn't have much of a plan. Not yet anyway. He just knew he needed a virgin start. Someplace new. Someplace to start spreading the Word again. He was a Deacon. Spreading the Word was his purpose in life. Such was the Will of the Prophet.

So he'd come here, to Thira, because the city was supposedly still intact and home to millions of forlorn Protasians. Millions of forlorn souls, eager to receive the soothing guidance of the Word. That Thira was to be Verrigan's city was only a bonus, an unexpected opportunity to repay the architect of Protasia's destruction. By the time vile scum arrived, the Preacher would have the entire city in his hands, and the bloody-handed fool would not even realize.

He waited for it to get dark before he approached the building. It wasn't a very big house. Sufficiently large for a small family, nothing more. He liked the way it was nestled in between the hills. You could walk past at a distance of a few hundred meters and never notice it was there. At the same time you had this magnificent view of the lake and the open countryside. If you turned east you could even spy the great white-capped Mastari Mountains rising in the distance.

The house wasn't new, but it was well maintained. Or it had been, before the war. Now it was beginning to show the signs of neglect. The house seemed so warm and welcoming, such a pity to let it go to ruin. Once he had made the inhabitants his followers, he would make sure they took good care of the building.

He knocked at the front door.

There was no answer.

He knocked again, harder.

He could hear two pairs of booted feet approaching.

"Who's there?" a brusque male voice barked out.

A foreigner by the sound of him. An Imperial Guardsman then.

"Preacher Molevoch, of the Missionaria Galaxia," he replied. "I was headed for Thira on the God-Emperor's business, but darkness descended and now I seem to be lost."

The door was yanked halfway open. Two males, one a young man, the other middle-aged, both in IG uniforms, stood in the doorway, lasguns casually pointed in his direction.

"Yeah well, this isn't Thira," said the elder man with the brusque voice. "Just follow the road, take to the right at the junction. You'll reach the city before dawn."

Molevoch put on his most winning smile. "I shall be on my way then. But tell me, do you have a moment to contemplate the Divine Word, as delivered to us by the great Prophet of Light?"

Both men looked about to object, but neither did. Instead they blinked, as if confused. They looked at one another, seeking affirmation, but finding none. They looked at the preacher, and in his warm smile they found the answers to all their questions.

"May I come in?" Molevoch asked.

Both men nodded eagerly. "Please do, reverend," the elder one said and stepped aside. The younger one quickly opened the door all the way and gave Molevoch a deferential bow, as you would the give the minister of your local church.

Molevoch stepped inside, smiling. His new congregation had gotten off to a good start.


	20. PART 2 - THE BOY

_The road to heresy is paved with good intentions._

- Anon


	21. CHAPTER 14 - SQUARE ONE

"Back to square one," Haxtes exclaims. He has another sip of his drink. "I kept heading deeper into the city." Images of the ruined cityscape play out inside your mind. "By now I was inside the Forbidden Zone," he continues.

The buildings appear somewhat less damaged here. If the Imperials were to take over a section of the city, they would have picked something still relatively intact, and then patched up whatever needed fixing.

"The outer perimeter, mind you," Haxtes adds. "I had never made any attempts at penetrating the far more intimidating inner cordon. And the hospital building at the heart of the zone was a complete blank to me."

Intimidating indeed. There are several layers of physical barriers, overlapping auspex scanning fields, patrolling sentries, and gun-servitors manning heavy weapon emplacements. And that's just the stuff you can see; there is bound to be additional, unseen security measures as well.

By the look of things - the utter lack of markings and identification sigils, for example - you have a fairly good idea what might be hidden inside. If your assumptions are correct, you're actually a bit surprised that Haxtes managed to breach even the outer security layers. It should have been impossible without the aid of advanced technology or psychics. There is more here than meets the eye.

"I didn't know this area as well as my own part of town," Haxtes says, "but I'd gone through it a few times before," you raise an eyebrow at this claim, but Haxtes ignores you, "and knew the general layout well enough." Another, contemplative sip of amasec. "I kept to the parts where there would be less chance of running into patrolling guardsmen or roving servoskulls."

You sensory probe feeds you images of Haxtes making his way across the zone, moving quickly, surely, and without attracting any attention.

"It was an awful risk that I took," he goes on, "but I had a mission and could not be turned aside. The resolution of my birthday quandary hinged on my success."

Haxtes takes a moment to restructure his thoughts. "Mother had not returned to our new townhouse," he doesn't deign to call it home, "the previous night and I was worried. Worried that my birthday cake would not get done. Worried that there would be no celebration, no present."

He lets out a barely audible sigh, "Jax had followed in Father's footsteps so to speak," Haxtes eyes seem to look inward, "he was rarely at the house, except for meals or when he wanted something. Most of the time he was elsewhere, trying hard to be accepted as a full member of the Kiones, a group of 'freedom fighters' operating out of our zone."

He starts sliding his index finger along the rim of the glass, ever so slowly. "So it fell to young Haxtes to protect the girls and look after the canine." His swirls his glass ever so slowly, making figures of eight in the air. "I tried my best of course, but I was only nine and could only do so much. Jax should have been there," he says flatly. "He was fifteen. Fifteen and a half. A man grown. He knew I couldn't fill his shoes, but he just didn't care." The finger stops and he looks right at you. "I hated him for it. For a very long time I hated him."

You've gathered as much already, but say nothing.

He clears his throat. "At first we hadn't really felt the war. There were no orbital barrages launched against Thira. But as weeks turned into months and late summer became autumn," you watch as the hill country around Thira goes from the arid yellow of summer, to the verdant green of moist autumn, "things started to get more difficult for us. The grid was down more often than not. Food and other basic supplies were getting harder to come by."

The finger resumes its circling movement. "Father had already joined the militia by then." You adjust the probe to get a glimpse of Haxtes' father, but you're too late, catching only his uniformed back as he marches away from the house in the hills.

"He came back to the house a few times in the beginning," Haxtes says, "but then his unit was redeployed to meet some Imperial threat or the other."

You don't bother trying to get a good look - Haxtes has long since supressed his memories of the man. You'll never be able to dig up a clear picture of the man.

"I never saw or heard from him again." The finger stops. "Not a single info package over the grid. No written letters. No word of mouth messages. Nothing." Haxtes' voice is cold and dead. "I do not know what became of him. He was most likely either killed in action or succumbed to attrition." He sounds very certain.

"That is a common enough problem in all war zones," you offer. "Lots of people involved, general mayhem and very little information to work from. The Officio Medicale rarely has the resources needed to sort out every body part found or track down every missing person."

Haxtes nods almost imperceptibly in agreement. "He could, I guess, have survived. Survived and made a new life for himself." The nodding has become shaking. "It's possible, but unlikely. More than a billion people died during the war or in the aftermath of it. I'm certain he was one of them. A true Protasian patriot. Or a rebel and a traitor to the God-Emperor. Pick the one you like best." Tap, tap goes the finger against the rim of the glass, impatiently waiting for you to answer.

"I feel sorry for your loss," you venture.

"Don't be. He had already abandoned his family before the war. This was just the final act of his betrayal," Haxtes adds.

Fleeting images of his father flash unbidden before your eyes, coalescing into a ghostly outline lingering just outside the circle of light. You judge him to be a tall and handsome man, with uncommonly intelligent eyes. He makes the sign of the Aquila, and then he is gone.

Haxtes continues. "Mother had taken to selling her body to keep us fed. I didn't understand it at the time, but it was the way of things. Father was gone, prices were up, and she had three kids to feed, one of them a big lad that was constantly demanding more."

Another poorly concealed attempt at deriding his brother.

"In the beginning it had been to the militia and other Protasians," he continues. "She would go into town for a while, and when she came back she's bring with her food, medicines, clothes, and other necessities."

His very attractive mother appears as an apparition in the darkness. She is nude. Cascades of dark hair that fall almost to her waist, revealing more than it conceals. Her age is indeterminate; mature, but youthful at the same time. When she notices you staring she gives a little laugh, flings her hair and dances away on bare feet, leaving you to admire the memory of her curves.

Haxtes gives you an appraising look. "I guess the ironic part is that Mother was feeling...quite well during this period. There was none of the angst or apathy that normally gnawed at her soul. She rose to the occasion so to speak. Or maybe she just enjoyed a bit of whoring. Going into town to fuck strangers. Bringing regular customer back to the house for a little more intimacy." He chuckles. "In my book that actually sounds a lot better than sitting around the house crying, while watching your kids starve. One of the few things she got right." A real smile this time. Very brief, but it was there.

Haxtes gives a minute shrug and continues. "When Thira was occupied times became harder for most folk. I guess we thought that we had it really rough, but truth be told that wasn't the case. Sure the city was bombed and shelled. Sure there were few enough houses left unscathed. Sure infrastructure was shot to hell. Sure there was little enough food. Sure the IGs treated us like shit. But we were not burned to ash by plasma bombs. Nor were we hit with kinetic obliterator strikes, thermonuclear warheads, or any other sort of mass strategic bombardment. We had little food, but we had food. Our drinking water was not poisoned. No strange diseases ravaged the city. In short we were doing good, relatively speaking."

Haxtes stops for a moment, chokes down the beginnings of laughter, "I'm as bad as Vern," he says in an uncharacteristically merry tone.

"Please," you say, "do continue. Additional detail helps with my understanding. I get brilliantly clear images from Thira as you speak, but without a little extra guidance I don't think I would manage to fully understand the context. Alternatively I could disengage and check the librarium for records on Protasia, but from what you and Vern have told me I do not think I'd find anything worthwhile."

Haxtes looks at you. His eyes are flat, almost lifeless, but there is a faint smile on his lips. "Speaking of the librarium. Before you compartmentalized your mind I was able to discern you're in a secure library, under close scrutiny. You have now been motionless, starting at the same page, for quite a while. Maybe you should form a new mental compartment to handle the occasional turning of pages?"

By the teats of Horus, you should have thought of that! "Yes, of course, give me but a moment."

You've already been begun improving on your mental architecture, putting in an emotional buffer between your observation compartment and the interactive compartment. That way you can get deep immersion while retaining rational control over the interactive mind. And it helps you avoid cluttering your ego core with unwanted emotions.

Now is as good a time as any to put in a fourth division to handle the motions of your real body. You know can handle a fourth, you've done it many times, but you also know that it will tax your resources if you have to sustain it for very long.

In the librarium your hand slowly turns over a page. Your eyes gain a little more life and movement. It should suffice for now.

"There. I am done," you say. "Do please continue."

The faint smile disappears from his lips as Haxtes returns to his story. "The actual Battle for Thira didn't really touch my family. The closest we got was a Commissar trotting a squad of IGs. They searched through our house, looking for guns, but of course there were none. That and the ceaseless chatter of smallarms and lasweapons, interspersed with liberal doses of heavy ordnance going off."

"The IGs let you remain in your house?" Just like that?" you ask, finding it somewhat hard to believe.

Haxtes makes the minute shrug again. "Depends on what you mean by 'just like that'. Listen to the story and draw you conclusions later."

It doesn't really matter anyway, so you just nod to keep him going.

"The biggest change in our lives came a few weeks after the battle was over," Haxtes continues. "The Imperials didn't want people living on the outskirts, so we were herded into town and assigned an apartment in a building that was still standing."

"I'm betting that undamaged country house of yours was a nice bonus for some nameless regimental officer," you add.

"Possibly. Probably." An almost genuine smile threatens to appear, but is quickly dismissed. "Mother took to working the Imperial Guard instead of the militia. She got paid in Lucid Palace-underwritten Thrones instead of Protasian Drachma, Guard rations become the most important part of our daily food intake, and our blankets and other equipment carried the Aquila emblem instead of the Six Rods of State."

He makes a dismissive gesture. "You'd think that this fraternizing with the enemy and selling the God-Emperor's equipment would get the guardsmen in trouble. Maybe it did, but the soldiers did it anyway. And besides, their Commissar was quite fond of Protasian women, Mother in particular. I guess they had some sort of understanding." He pauses to let you speak.

You fill the gap effortlessly. "He's the one that came to your house isn't he? That's why they left you alone initially, right?"

Haxtes salutes you by raising his drink in a mock toast.

"Most Commissars are rather zealous in their pursuit of absolute discipline," you counter.

Haxtes twitches his lip in what is probably his version of a lopsided grin. "Could well be, but there are always exceptions. I've met more than one Commissar who has been willing to bend the rules a little." He nods to himself. "They are the wise ones who have realized that morale and loyalty can spring forth from many wells, not just the barrel of a bolt pistol pressed against the back of a man's head."

Granted, you haven't met all that many Commissars, your duties rarely take you to warzones, but those you have met have all seemed like men of great integrity. But rather than gainsaying Haxtes over another unimportant point, you gesture for him to continue.


	22. CHAPTER 15 - THE MISSING INGREDIENT

Haxtes resumes talking. "Mother sometimes left the apartment to seek work, but she took care to minimize the risks. She would bring Jax with her - if he was around. Not much of a bodyguard, but better than nothing I suppose. I was entrusted with a compact autopistol and told to protect my sister. I did not flinch from my duty."

How very noble of him. Contrasting somewhat with his need to constantly deride his brother - and paint himself as the heroic martyr.

He speaks softly, more so than usual. "On the day before my birthday, she went out, but did not return like she had told us. Jax wasn't around much, that day was no exception, so she'd gone alone. Night came and we - Eli and I - were forced indoors by the curfew. That was reason for concern. Mother almost never spent her nights outside our new accommodations. If she did she would always tell use beforehand and make sure Jax saw to his duties to the family." He makes a fleeting gesture with his free hand. "I could not sleep. Not even my sister's lullabies could pull me down into the dreamlands. Instead I sat in the darkness, peering out from behind the blinds. The gun never left my hands."

Images of the darkened city surround you. Curfew is in effect and what indoor lights are on are muted by heavy blinds.

"She had told me she'd come home," Haxtes says. In your mind his voice becomes that of a child. "Told me that she would make me a cake on the morrow. That was the reason she went out that day, to find a few missing ingredients."

Haxtes seems less anxious about his mother than he should be - and rather more concerned about his own gratification. Definitely a pattern here too.

He continues, still in the voice of a child. "I told myself she was probably just having trouble finding everything she needed for the recipe." For some reason your sensory probe conjures forth images of Haxtes mother. She's back at the family house, baking - in the nude, save a pair of heels and a very short half apron. You do a quick purge of the offending processes to bring your mind - and body - back under control. By the Throne, where did that come from?

Haxtes voice returns to normal. "She had probably gone to the 57th Lo compound to barter. And then she had been delayed by the curfew. I seemed the only logical explanation. If so she would have spent the night at the Commissar's place. It had happened before."

"I'm sure he'd like that," you comment drily, "it would fit his character perfectly. Good for his own morale so to speak." Oddly enough you feel a faint tingle of jealousy - an emotion that hasn't troubled your mind in many years...

...your inner self spring into action. Anti-intrusion procedures, mercilessly drilled into you years ago, take over. You quickly identify the offender: A small speck of emotion. It has penetrated your barriers and taken root inside your inner fortress. That's how it escaped the purge. Not acceptable. You grab hold of the conglomerate and unravel it; if you let it remain it will only grow and become the cause of additional emotional triggers.

Haxtes chuckles. "Good one Marcus. You have humour. I never would have guessed." He stifles the laughter. "I tried to stay awake, but the closer we got to dawn, the harder it became. I finally dozed off and slept fitfully for a few hours. When I woke Mother was still not there. Jax was not there. Only the canine, my sleeping sister, and I remained."

He swirls his amasec, looking at the light play through the liquid. "So I grabbed an IG utility belt, hooked an IG canteen into it, put a couple of IG energy bars into my pockets, checked the IG autopistol one more time, and went looking for her. With Jax gone it was up to me to find her and bring her safely home. That was my mission and I would not be turned aside."

Now that your mind is clear again you can evaluate the situation. You're much more deeply immersed now. Haxtes narrative is merging with the sensory stream, combining into an unprecedentedly detailed simulation of the situation. It is almost like being there. You are no longer sitting in a chair in a circle of light, observing ghostly images. You are there, with Haxtes, in the ruins of Thira.

As a side effect you've experienced some emotional spillover. Spillover that needs to be controlled, lest your mind play tricks on you again. Haxtes' mother may have been attractive, but now is not the time for you to end up fantasizing about a dead whore, no matter how shapely she might have been.

"I got through the Forbidden Zone without incident," Haxtes voice says, sounding faint and distant, like the narrator from a bad holo-show.

"It was only two blocks deep, but it was five wide. Going around would take too long."

The boy is prowling through the dense mist, going from cover to cover, but managing to keep a good pace. He's on the far side of the outer cordon now, but he's still being cautious.

"We didn't know why the Forbidden Zone was forbidden," you hear Haxtes say, "but we knew the IGs guarded it and there were roadblocks, wire fences, and frag wire all around, plus several gun emplacements made of flakboard and ballistic bags. Armoured vehicles would come and go. Sometimes Valkyries would land on top of what used to be the main hospital building."

You can't be positively sure, not with the mist and all, but your own ideas about the zone have been reinforced. Very few Imperial organizations have the authority to operate autonomously in a warzone like this. You keep your suspicions to yourself.

Haxtes continues. "On the other side was more Restricted Zone." You see more ruins on the other side, but the mist prevents you from getting more than a cursory look. "Twenty or more blocks in all directions, all the way down to the city centre. This was Imperial Guard territory. It was also where I had to be if I was going to find Mother and bring her home to make the fucking cake she'd promised me."

Within your inner sanctum you assess the situation. It's not about the cake of course; the kid is scared. Has been since the war started. He feels abandoned, alone. Betrayed by his father and brother. Estranged from his sister. The mother is all that stands between him and emotional ruin. That's your assessment, that's how you would have felt.

Inside the circle of light your eyes meet Haxtes' gaze. You're suddenly not so sure; within the cold abyss of his eyes you find preciously little to remind you of yourself.

In the librarium your eyes wander over to the opposing page. You make some other miniscule adjustments to your body, adding a few semi-random motions to make it appear more natural to the auditors.

"I used the mist for all it was worth and kept going until I reached the compound of the 57th Lo Mechanized Regiment," Haxtes says.

You're familiar with Lo. It is an Imperial world in the Drusus Marches subsector, not very far from Protasia. It's classified as an Imperial World in some records, and as a minor Hive World in others.

You personally feel that the Scintillan practice of naming every world with anything even remotely resembling a hive city as a Hive World is something of a mistake. In your opinion only Scintilla and Malfi qualify as true hive worlds, with a dozen or so other planets competing for a spot in the league of minor hive worlds. Lo is one such minor league contender.

The Loi Metalworks industrial conglomerate produces a wide range of military vehicles, from motorcycles and utility tractors, to AFVs of every kind, up to and including heavy tanks. No super-heavies though; the only place that has the templates for that in Calixis is the remote Synford forge world. And the Lathes of course, but they won't deign to produce something so mundane, when they can instead focus on building their precious god-machines - the battle titans.

Much of the planet's tithe comes in the form of these vehicles, making whoever controls the Loi Metalworks the most likely candidate as Imperial Commander of Lo. Any Guard regiments raised from Lo stock invariably comes equipped in the style of mechanized infantry, supported by ample numbers of armoured battalions.

Haxtes has moved a distance while you were musing. Having several mental compartments really is quite practical, but keeping track of several simultaneous processes can be a challenge.

Haxtes pauses in the shadow of a Sentinel walker. It looks surprisingly intact for an abandoned vehicle. Perhaps its machine spirit gave up. Or maybe it simply ran out of fuel.

"Knowing that they wouldn't be happy if they caught me with a gun I stashed the autopistol before making my move. I could have gotten in unseen I think, but that would defeat the purpose of my trip. I was here to bring my mother back, not to skulk around."

He starts moving again. He stops at intervals to listen. Eventually you can see that he's coming up on an Imperial Guard compound. It's been expertly walled off using a mix of imported equipment and scavenged materials.

"Bold as brass I walked forward," Haxtes says, "and made myself known to the gate guards. Sticking my head up like that...it was very alien to me...I would never have done it if Jax hadn't abandoned his post."

His anti-Jax sentiments are very well known to you by now. You're beginning to find it quite tiresome. Earlier he claimed his memories of home no longer bothered him. It doesn't look that way to you.

"To their credit they didn't shoot me on sight, coming out of the mist at point blank range as I were. Very civilized of them. But then again the people of the world of Lo are a rather civilized bunch. Relatively speaking."

You can see the compound gate rising out of the mist, complete with roadblocks and gun positions. Again well planned and quite expertly made; this Loi regiment seems quite professional.

You decide to try something new. You'll go in deeper than before. Fuse the sensory feed and your interactive compartment. You give the scene your undivided attention, letting sensory data wash through your buffer-compartment and into your observing mental division.

One moment your perception is split between listening to Haxtes in the ring of light and watching him walk through the ruins of Thira. The next the ring is gone and you are truly there, in the ruins of Thira. You're no longer watching Haxtes' life play out as a holo-show - you've become a ghost, stalking Haxtes, looking over his shoulder.


	23. CHAPTER 16 - COMMISSAR'S ORDERS

"Hey kid," one of the IGs on duty stepped out from behind a reinforced rockrete roadblock, "you're not supposed to be here. Back off or I'll put a round through you." He said it matter-of-factly, his long-barrelled lasgun not fully raised, but nevertheless ready to fire at a moment's notice. I fought the urge to turn and run. No matter how wrong it felt to stand out in the open I was committed - bolting now will get me shot for sure.

It was hard to make out any details. The Guardsman with the rifle was only a handful of meters away, but he was barely visible through the thick mist. His squad mates were no more than dark shapes veiled in cloaks of white. Beyond them I could make out the contours of the compound wall, the roadblocks, and the reinforced guard post. It was like the rest of the galaxy didn't exist, it was just me and the IGs, surrounded by infinite whiteness.

"I want my mother," I said, remaining rooted to the spot. "She's here with the Commissar. Can you get her for me?" I got a blank look in return. "Tell her to be quick. It's my birthday." I tried to sound childish. Some soldiers are reluctant to gun down children. The smaller they are, the less likely they are to shoot. A small advantage, but an advantage nonetheless.

A few tense seconds passed before the IG lets his rifle barrel drop. Just a few centimetres, but I knew the moment of greatest danger had passed.

Another voice, deeper and more menacing. "Get that auto trained!" followed by an even louder, "NOW!" A multi-barrelled lascannon swivelled towards me, three gunmetal barrels whipping the mist into chaotic swirls. "Jons! Get your ass back into cover!" A hairy arm with rolled-up sleeves appeared, followed by the owner of the menacing voice, a very big soldier with sergeant hashes. The hairy arm grabbed Jons by the back of his utility webbing and yanked him back into cover. "Mazzo. Get me an auspex scan!" Two seconds went by. "NOW MAZZO, NOW!"

Another voice, coolly professional and bitingly acidic at the same time. "All clear Sarge. No extra lifesigns, no guns, no explosives. LGE green."

Sarge, in a low and growling voice. "You motherfucking morons! You're the most incompetent little fucks I have ever had the misfortune of serving with. You never learn! It's a miracle any of you are still alive!" Spittle was flying. "First you secure the area with the biggest fucking gun you have. Then scan the motherfucking area to see if there might be like an ambush or a sniper or just a suicide bomber. How fucking hard can it be!?" The last sentence was hammered out, word by word.

The hulking shape of Sarge towered out of the mist, like some ancient lighthouse. "You, kid. Front and centre!" I guessed that means me, so I scurried over. A big first immediately grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pulled me close, forcing the cool ceramite barrel-cover of a heavy laspistol into my cheek.

"Hey Sarge," the IG called Jons said, getting out from behind cover again, moving forward, "no need to get all worked up. I know the kid. He comes here with his mother from time to time. You know; the curvy one with the dark hair that Commissar Joaquin likes. That's why I didn't fry his little brain. He's cool. You can let him through." So he was going to shoot me, until he recognized my face. I vowed silently to myself, never to pull a stunt like that again.

I recognized Jons now. He was one of Mother's 'special friends'. He came by the house from time to time. He always had chocolates or candy for the kids. He'd grown a beard since last I saw him. It had more red to it than his blonde hair would suggest.

Another IG stepped out of the white. This one had 'Mazzo' stencilled on his flak jacket, right over his right chest pocket. The other two men, Sarge and Jons had no name tags. Sarge had his hashes and a regimental badge on his shoulder, Jons had no markings of any kind.

Mazzo had an auspex scanner in his left hand and a lasgun held in his right, pointing up and over his shoulder. The auspex was a rugged square box of metal with a heavy-duty display on top. Multiple standard access ports for it to link with other STC equipment. Pretty crude compared to what I was used to, but it looked like it could take a hall of a beating and keep working. The lasgun looked normal, except for something big and tube-like strapped under the barrel.

"Yeah, Jons is right for once," Mazzo said. "Let the kid through. He's just looking for his mom. Besides," he added, "I'm done shooting unarmed kids." Turning back towards the position he shouted to a hereto unseen Guardsman. "Roverto, point that fucking gun somewhere else. I'm getting all jumpy here." A fourth voice, muffled by the fog. "Fuck you too Mazzo!" but the gun barrels disappear from sight.

Sarge let go of me, waving his handgun in the general direction of his own men instead. "You fucking morons. These people are the enemy, remember? Rebels. Traitors. Heretics. Ring any bells? Any one of them could be a gunman. Or a bomber. Or a spy. You want to live through this or not? This isn't the time to get sloppy. A few weeks more and we're done with this shit, remember?"

Jons seemed about to reply, but instead he snapped to attention. After a moment of confusion the rest of the men followed suit. A man in a long black storm coat and tall cap had walked into our midst. Unlike the guardsmen he was immaculately groomed and dressed. I felt strangely intimidated and safe at the same time.

"I am very disappointed," the Commissar said in an even voice, "by the lack of discipline and skill your men display, Sergeant Blano." He let his gaze linger on each man in turn, causing them to cringe ever so slightly.

"Guard duty," the black clad man continued, "should be simple enough that even the men of the 57th Lo can manage. It was covered during basic training and is well documented in the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. That you're combat veterans is no excuse for laxness. Quite the contrary, you should strive to be exemplars, role-models to soldiers less experienced than yourself. You will do better next time, or there will be reprisals."

He waved around a smallish black book with an Aquila on the front cover. "The Primer has details on that too. You can find it under 'Punishment for dereliction of duty' and 'Punishment for lack of vigilance'. Both involve shooting the offender, if I'm not much mistaken. Questions? No? Good. Jons, bring the boy. Sergeant Blano, guard the gate, as best you can."

The Commissar turned on his heel and walked quickly and purposefully back inside the compound. I and Jons followed him. The sun was breaking through in places. It would not be long now before the mist lifted. I would have to take the long way home.

I suddenly burst out in laughter. I would have to take the long road anyway. I could not sneak Mother through the Forbidden Zone!

Jons, looking a bit perplexed. "What's funny boy?"

"My mother, I..." You couldn't really explain it, so I gave up without trying.

"You two, inside," the Commissar said, pointing at a prefab field accommodations unit over by the compound's west wall. I ducked under the camouflage nets strung up above, and entered through a light metal door that was standing ajar.

Inside lay the Commissar's personal quarters. It was actually quite homely; several candlesticks, opened books, and personal mementos. A slender chainsword sat partially disassembled on a table, next to the skull of some strange beast. "Jons, watch the door. Kid, sit." The commissar indicated a chair. I sat down and put on my listening intently face.

"My name is Joaquin. Commissar Joaquin to the men. You can call me just Joaquin if you like." He rummaged through a drawer in his desk and produced a couple of candy-sticks and an energy bar. "Here, eat it now if you're hungry. Or save it for later if you're not."

I still hadn't eaten the two bars I brought from the apartment, but I wasn't about to turn down an offer of extra food.

He took a seat opposite me. "You're Haxtes, aren't you? Lydia's youngest?" I managed a nod. My mouth was too full of candy to answer. "I saw you two in the market once. And she's spoken of you many times. Showed me your pict." An uncomfortable silence followed.

I gulped down the last of the candy. "Where is she? It's my birthday and she promised me a cake." I put a liberal dose of childish concern into my voice, hoping I sounded like a distraught 9-year old.

"That," Joaquin said, "is what I'm wondering myself." I let the second candy-stick drop to the floor, unopened.

He grabbed my hands and looked intently at me for a few seconds. "I heard you at the gate, asking for her." As an Imperial Commissar, Joaquin is part of the enemy. A nice enemy maybe, but still an enemy; I hadn't forgotten. Still, I found his touch to be oddly calming.

Joaquin nodded. "She did come here yesterday. Said it was your birthday. She needed a few things for the cake." He paused. "We came to an...arrangement. She left well in advance of the curfew. Jons here followed her to the square with the red statues."

I tilted my head a bit and looked expectantly at Jons. They had better not lost Mother. If they had, there would be consequences.

Jons scooped up the candy-stick I dropped. "Sure did kid. All the way along Main and up to Red. She only had to loop around the Forbidden Zone and she'd be over on the indig - civilian - side of town." He hands you the candy. "Should have been safe enough. She's gone there many times before. All the...wh...women go by that route."

My mind reeled. So they had lost her. Between Jax and the Imperial Guard they had abandoned her halfway between here and the apartment.

Joaquin's was still holding mine, but now I felt only revulsion at his touch. "She must have gotten lost," I said, "or maybe she didn't make it back before nightfall. I must go and look for her."

The two men, Commissar Joaquin and Guardsman First Class Jons looked at one another for a moment. Nothing was said, but something was agreed upon, without the need for words.

Jons. "I'll take the kid and go looking for her. Could be nothing, but we'll go make sure. I'll bring a vox and report back if we find anything." The Commissar nodded. "Acceptable. I'll have a QRF standing by. I'll be in the command post, listening in on the vox."

Vox. What an odd word.

The Commissar guessed my thoughts. "It means 'radio-wave communicator'. Vox is High Gothic for 'voice'. The Primer and the other field manuals have a few words on loan from High Gothic." He squeezed my hands one extra time before letting go of me.

Jons held the door open for me. "Come kid. I'll just grab my kit and a vox and we'll go find your mom." He moved further down along the wall where more hab units had been positioned. "Just wait here. I'll only be a minute." He disappeared inside.

A couple of other Guardsmen passed me by. They seemed indifferent to my presence, except for one fellow who pretended to shoot me in the head with his finger.

Jons came out again. He'd added more gear pouches to his webbing. Normally I'd try guessing what exciting stuff he'd hidden inside, but my mind was busy elsewhere. "Come kid. Over to the gate," Jons said, urging me to follow.

We headed back to the gate. Sarge and the other two IGs, Rovo and Mazzo, were still on duty, looking a bit livelier than before. "There you are Jons", Sarge said. "I wondered if you'd turn up again or if I had to go look for you."

"I'm sorry Sarge. I have to go outside. Commissar's orders. I'm to find the kid's mother and escort them both home."

"Say again?" Sarge looked like he couldn't quite understand the words coming out of Jons' mouth.

Jons picked up a compact vox set and hooked it to the webbing on left side of his chest. "Boy's mother. Locate and retrieve. Commissar's orders. End."

He rummaged through a couple of boxes stacked inside the small guard shed, producing a brace of hand grenades still inside their cellulose boxes. Bulky, even for Imperial equipment. As an afterthought he threw a quad of lasgun charge packs into his combat pack. Sarge clenched his jaw, blinked three times, shook his head and backed out of the shed.

Mazzo and Roverto were waiting for us outside the shed. Roverto was the taller and heavier of the pair, but for some reason it was Mazzo that drew the eye: He was more compact, but there was more substance to him. There was more of Mazzo, so to speak, only it was wrapped into a smaller package.

Mazzo looked squarely at Jons. "This is a bad idea. The squad sticks together. You know what happens when we don't." Roverto nodded in silent agreement.

Jons was having none of it. "Look guys, I appreciate the offer, but no. The Commissar said I was to go. The rest of you have duties to attend to."

Mazzo wasn't going to let him get away that easily. "Tell him Rovo. Tell him again what happens if we don't stick together."

"A brother dies. That's what," Roverto exclaimsed

"That's bullshit," Jons said, but his voice betrayed his inner turmoil, "and besides, this is different. I'm not going into action, I'm just helping the boy find his mother."

"Tico," Mazzo asked rhetorically. "How did Tico die?"

Roverto replied on cue. "Alone."

"And Recozzo?" Mazzo continued, "Where his brothers near when he died?"

"No, he died alone," Rovo supplied, sounding solemn.

Sarge reappeared before more of the dead could be named. "Forget it morons; let that freak idea die a stillborn death. Saves me the need to smother it for you." He made a short pause, daring them to gainsay him. Neither man did.

"If Jons wants to go out and die alone that's his call. It's a shit call. A shit call made by a shit guy who thinks he's better than his brothers. Fuck him, I say."

"Yeah, fuck me," Jons said. "And besides none of you saints are very stealthy." He turned back to me. "Time to go kid," he said, "time to go."

I turned my back to the guard post and the three IGs, and followed Jons back into the streets, just as the fog was lifting, revealing the city in all its devastated glory. "Mother, I'm coming for you," I whispered. "And when I find you," I found myself thinking of the Commissar, "you'll keep your promises to me," Jax' carefree face replaced the Commissar's, "or I swear on the ancestors that I'll make them pay for what they've done."


	24. CHAPTER 17 - CITY OF RED ANGELS

You pull back from deep immersion, returning to the circle of light.

"Thira was called the City of Red Angles on account of the many red marblerite statues you find adoring the public spaces. The marblerite was quarried locally; the Lakes region was rather famous for its quality stone," Haxtes explains.

"The statues didn't really depict angels though. They depicted the great men and women of Protasia's past. Our hallowed ancestors." He does his almost-human chuckle again. "But I guess they looked pretty angelic, with their laurels and their feathered wings and all."

There is no disagreeing with his assessment. The mental images you get leave nothing to be desired in the angel department. Positively huge, grand, and gothic-baroque. Not even the artisans of the Adeptus Ministorum could have done better.

"Family is important to Protasians," Haxtes says. "Living and dead family alike," Haxtes elaborates. "You could say that we engaged in a form of ancestral worship. Rather than pray directly to the God-Emperor we prayed to our ancestors to intercede with Him on our behalf. The Calixian Ministorum didn't like that approach very much. They would rather have us adopting the full array of Imperial Saints instead. I'm sure you can guess how we reacted to that." He puts on his best predatory smile to highlight the statement.

Yes, you can easily envision the Protasian elders gather in their precious Forums to debate the latest Ecclesiarchial infringements upon their ancient traditions. You can also vividly picture the sort of discussions that Protasian practices would have given rise to when the Synod of Cardinals gathered in the massive Cathedral of Illumination in Hive Tarsus, the second most important hive on Scintilla, eclipsed only by Hive Sibellus itself.

Haxtes nods to himself. "No surprises there. But," he raises a finger, "the Missionaria Galaxia is nothing if not persistent. And so, over the course of two dozen centuries, the images of our hallowed ancestors took on a decidedly angelic mien." He shakes his right trigger finger a little. "Pretty base actually, but clever at the same time. When we would not adopt their saints they made saints of our own honoured dead. Which in turn paved way for importing a few off-world saints." He puts his hand down. "I'm sure that if Protasia hadn't rebelled the wheel would have continued to turn."

You turn another page and call for a cold drink to soothe your parched throat. Your observing mind continues to monitor the playback experienced by the interactive part of your ego, dutifully noting down details of Protasian religious observances. You find those observations oddly detracted, as if Haxtes has read about them in a book rather than lived them. Either that or he has completely distanced himself from his childhood faith. Or is it the Vern persona that's speaking, using Haxtes' voice? You can't tell for sure.

You do a few limbering exercises while you wait for you carbonated aqua. On a whim you have one of the servoskulls display the time. It does so with a green-laser projection on the white alabaster walls. Four hours have passed, much longer than you had thought. You need to take a piss and your stomach is grumbling loudly - you regret taking only a light lunch before coming here. But you're reluctant to take a break. You still have so much to learn about the practicalities of interacting with the tome - and right now you feel you're finally getting somewhere. Well, you've had worse experiences while in the field. You'll just have to soldier on.

An oblong container of brushed aluminium is brought to you by a small serving servitor. This one is a female model, fresh from the assembly lines. All flesh, save a pair of cybernetic eyes and some access ports on her upper spine.

She's actually kind of cute. Not that you have a thing for servitors; technophilia is as alien to your tastes as xenophilia. You're a bit conservative in that department, a little one-on-one with a consenting adult female is your preferred modus operandi. That basic setup offers an almost unlimited variety of physical and emotional stimulation. Again your thoughts wander to Haxtes' mother, but this time your filters kick in, killing the excitement before it can even begin.

You accept the container from the serving tray, unscrew the top which also serves as a cup, fill it up and empty it in three big swallows. You refill it, then return the container to the tray and wave away the servitor.

The she-servitor doesn't budge. "Visitors are not allowed to retain any liquids in the reading area. Please finish your drink," she says in a voice bereft of emotion.

You sigh, and empty the second cup. This won't help your bladder one bit.

You return your focus to your mental compartmentalization. The current arrangement is not optimal. The level of immersion is a bit excessive. You wanted to be there, to ride Haxtes' back like a ghost, unseen and unnoticed. But instead you ended being Haxtes, seeing what he saw, feeling what he felt. You refine your emotional filters to avoid getting dragged in deeper than intended.

The observing mind keeps nudging you. The interactive mind requires your attention. You grit your teeth and pray to the God-Emperor that you do not piss yourself while you're in here. In addition to the embarrassment, it is likely to get you expelled from the librarium.

We kept to the main road leading out of the compound, only taking a small detour to retrieve my cached gun. I considered leaving the autopistol, but I didn't know when I'd be back. The pistol was my only weapon, and therefore much too valuable to simply abandon. And it seemed wrong for Jons to be the only one carrying arms.

I was pretty sure Jons wouldn't be bothered by me being armed. I was right; he didn't even blink. Instead he asked me pointed questions as we walked - and proceeded to give me some advice on how to carry, aim, fire and reload a gun. It made me realize how little I knew of weapons and survival - and how valuable Jons could be to me if I played my cards right.

He also showed me how to care for the weapon's machine spirit after it had seen use. That part seemed a lot like cleaning and lubricating to me, but he insisted that it calmed the weapon's spirit, which made it less likely to jam or otherwise misbehave. Well, he did know more than me about guns, so I guess he could have been right.

Afterwards we went up to Red Square. That's what the IGs called the Plaza of the Hallowed. I couldn't really blame them; it was a big open space and it had at least a hundred statues in red marblerite arranged around it in three concentric circles. Most of the statues had been damaged or outright destroyed, leaving the square covered with red rubble. And voila: The Red Square. Never mind that the open space wasn't at all square in shape; I suppose grunts favour simplicity over accuracy.

Red Square was about halfway between the 57th Lo compound and the Forbidden Zone I had passed through earlier. If you were headed east from the square you had to first go north or south, bypass the Zone and then resume your original heading. South was longer, but safer. North was shorter, but snipers from both sides liked to take potshots at passersby. Sometimes there were bombings. And the Guard would go there in armoured columns occasionally. Best not to go by that route.

Anyway, Mother would have gone south, so that was our route of choice as well. Jons suggested we should separate a distance. One IG and one boy would look like an odd couple, sure to attract attention. Plus we'd be too easy to take out at once. Easy targets were tempting targets according to Jons. So I would go first and Jons would follow at a distance, keeping himself concealed as much as possible.

Make no mistake: I knew Jons was part of the enemy, but right then and there I was in dire need of his services. I also knew I had been set up as the bait. But that was the way it was. You have to give something to get something. And honestly, I didn't worry too much. If something happened I was confident that Jons would become the primary target. A local kid would be ignored for long enough for me to slink away.

We kept going for about an hour before Jons called a break. We'd come around the edge of the Forbidden Zone and started to turn east again. This was, in his opinion, the most likely place something could have happened. I didn't like the implications, but it sounded a reasonable assumption. We took cover in the ruins of a shattered building. I ate the energy bar I had gotten from Commissar Joaquin back at the compound and we shared some water from Jons' canteen.

Jons wiped some dust from his gun. When he saw me staring he showed it to me. It looked a lot like a standard lasgun, only it was a bit longer.

"This here is a Sollex-pattern Mk. 2 Longlas," Jons said with pride in his voice, "made on the forge world of Belcane, all the way over in the Markayn subsector," he said, pointing at a stamp in the metal.

"It's based on the tried and true Mars-pattern lasgun. You don't need to be an expert to see the similarities in design. Both came from the same standard template. Only this one has a longer barrel, a collapsible bipod and," he carefully removes a rifle scope from a webbing pouch and expertly fits it to the gun, "the best optics the Throne has to offer us grunts."

A big smile had crept onto his face. "I got it off a dead Brontian sniper during my first engagement on Kulth. He didn't look like he needed it anymore, and the Emperor doesn't like seeing good guns going to waste, so I was only doing my duty."

I didn't know about any of that, but the gun looked absolutely amazing to me. Sleek, purposeful, deadly. My autopistol suddenly felt completely inadequate. I determined to own such a weapon one day. It was an insane thought, really. Chances were I would not last another year, let alone have to opportunity to acquire a longlas. And even if I did survive, even if I did get the weapon - what would I do with it? Go hunting? Shoot at targets? I was only nine.


	25. CHAPTER 18 - HEART OF THE SNIPER

"You point and fire it, same as a projectile weapon," Jons explained, "only there is no bore and no bullet. Instead there is a mechanism inside that transforms the energy stored in the ammo pack," he patted the rather plain-looking square box protruding from the gun's bowels, "into a beam of extremely focused energy. That beam only lasts for an instant. Which is good, because the shorter the beam duration, the more violent the reaction in the target."

He let me hold it. It was much too big for a kid my size, but it was simply the most amazing thing I had ever held in my hands. Even holding Nix for the first time paled in comparison. "I like your laser-gun," I said, pretending to be a bit less knowledgeable about such things than I really was. Not that I was a tech-adept or anything, but I certainly knew the difference between a utility laser and a high-energy weapon.

My feigned, childish ignorance earned me a pat on the shoulder. "It's not a laser. Lasers are tools. This is a lasgun. It shoots a beam of energy, same as a laser, but there the similarities end. This baby can shoot in all kinds of weather, underwater even, and still kill at long range. A laser can't do that. I'm no tech-priest, but this I know is true."

He pointed back down the way we came. "Have a look. Do you see those fellows? The ones sneaking up behind us, trying to stay hidden, but doing a shit job about it?" I nodded. "I guessed as much. You're pretty observant for a kid. Here," he removed the front and back covers from the optics and flipped down the bipod, "have a look at them through the optics. The safety is on, so you won't hurt them."

I did as I was told, and suddenly it looked like Sarge, Mazzo and Roverto were standing right in front of me. Mazzo was up front. If the gun had been live I could just have pulled the trigger, and he would have died.

"Quite something, isn't it? To have the power to decide who lives and who dies. Too bad you don't have that power over your own life." Realizing he was talking about life and death with a nine-year old, he quickly dropped the subject.

I thought it sounded quite reasonable. I had seen enough death over the past year to appreciate the sentiment.

"It's superior in almost every way to a projectile weapon. Being an energy weapon means no moving parts. It's also completely sealed. So no sand in the chamber, no fouling of the barrel. It can be used underwater, in space, under just about any combat conditions. And it will fire straight and true every time. The beam is speed-of-light. You pull the trigger and you hit whatever you're aiming at. There is no ballistics to worry about. A bit of atmospheric diffraction perhaps, but nothing compared to the inherent spread of a gun shooting metal bullets. In short: Perfect for sniping."

He picked the gun out of my hands. I was sad to see it go. "There is almost no recoil, just a little snap when you fire. That comes from the thermal bloom around tip of the barrel, almost like a small explosion of heat." I gave the gun a thoughtful look. "Fortunately it comes with a thermal baffler," he pointed to a longish sleeve of grey ceramite covering the end of the barrel, "to keep my aim steady and to avoid giving away my position to nasty people with preysense sights. If you know what you're doing you can keep your aim though shot after shot. Projectile weapons need suspensors or other shit to compensate. Bulky and inelegant compared to this baby."

He detached the scope and carefully returned it to its padded pouch. "I call it the Eye. Without the Eye it's just another lasgun. It's the Eye and the heart of the shooter that matter. The gun is just a tool."

I nodded in agreement, but I wasn't so sure you actually need a good shooter. "With the Eye anyone can be a sniper," I ventured, "you don't even have to be much of a shot."

Jons shook his head. "No they can't. A sniper has to be more than just a servitor pulling the trigger." He scratched at his temple. "See...the beam is actually invisible, but it excites the hell out of the air, which gives you these bright lines, almost like miniature lightning bolts, only they are straight as razors. They will give away your position if the enemy is observant. DEW lines they are called in the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. Short for Direct Energy Weapon lines. If you're a real sniper you fire only a few shots before changing positions. Shoot and scoot. End of problem."

I nodded again. It made sense. A sniper was pretty useless if was killed in his first engagement.

Jons got a bright idea and pulled out his own copy of the Guardsman's primer. "Here, take it. There is lots of useful stuff in there. I can get me another, the Commissar won't mind."

I gladly accepted the compact black book with the golden Aquila on the cover. Knowing what the enemy knows is always to your advantage. "Thanks," I said, slipping the book into my satchel.

"But there's more," Jons continued. "You got to know how to stay out of sight. How to pick out the good spots, places where you won't be seen, but where the enemy will pass by within shooting range. Remain motionless for hours or days. Stay cool when the enemy tries to flush you out. That sort of thing."

I nodded more eagerly. I could do that.

"And...perhaps most of all you gotta like shooting people in the head from up close. See their skulls blow apart in a shower of blood, bone and gore. The Eye puts you right there kid. Puts you right there."

He looks at me, catching my eye. "You think you could do that kid? Do it, then sleep well and do it again the next day? Do you have the heart of a sniper?"

I made a single firm nod while meeting his gaze.

"Then I guess you'll be a sniper someday kid. Someday you'll be the man with the Eye, taking shots and calling men to face the God-Emperor's judgment," he said, making the half-Aquila with his free hand.

He turned halfway around and waved the rifle over his head as a signal to the approaching men. "You could come with us when we move. You look like a clever lad. We could have use for one such as you. The Commissar likes you, he'd let you come along."

This was unexpected. "What do you mean? Moving where?" I asked.

"Dunno where, dunno when. But we we'll be moving, sooner or later. Seems we'll be staying here on Protasia for the long haul. Word came down we'll be given settlement rights. Then we won't be Guardsmen no more. We'll all be citizens of Protasia. Or whatever the world is to be called after the rebellion is put down."

"But why not here?" I inquired. This development was somewhat unexpected. "Why not settle here, in Thira?"

"I don't rightly know. Heard there was this Administratum article that forbids guardsmen to settle where they've just kicked the shit out of the locals. Says it's bad for long-term stability and stuff." Jons spits into the dust. "Load of crap if you ask me." His eyes became distant.

He sighed. "No, I bet there is some brass higher up the chain of command that thinks Thira is too nice for the 57th Lo Mechanized - but just about right for their own outfit."

He shifted his position to better observe the approaching trio. "You don't have to decide right away kid, but give it some consideration. If..." he pauses, "when we find your mother ask her if she'd like to come too...good women are hard to come by in this place."

"What about my sister?" I said.

Eli was pretty useless, but family should stick together. And she might just be my ticket out of Thira if Mother was...unavailable.

"What about her?" Jons replied.

"She's a woman too; can she also come?" I asked, putting emphasis on the word 'woman'.

"Didn't know you had a sister...and this sister is how old?"

I consider the question for a moment. "She turned twelve a few months before the first bombs fell. So I guess she's like thirteen and a half now," I said in an innocent voice.

"Takes after your mother, does she?" Jons sounded hopeful.

In more ways than one I thought inside, but on the outside I just nodded again.

"Well, that's a bonus. Yes, she can come too," Jons replied.

Good. Whether or not we found Mother I had secured my passage out of this place.

"And Nix, my canine, can he come too?" I asked in as thin a thin voice as possible.

It was really Jax' canine, but seeing as I was the one that actually cared for it, I had to bring it along.

"You have a dawg?" A smile appeared on his face. "Yes, your dawg can come. Of course it can come!" He laughed heartily. Made me think he used to have a 'dawg' of his own, back when he wasn't a soldier.

"...my brother Jax...what about him?" I said finally, pretending not to already know the answer to the question.

"Sorry son, but your brother is too old." He shook his head for emphasis. "I saw him when I came around last time. He must be what, fourteen or fifteen now? That means he's a man grown on my world. I...the Regiment simply wouldn't allow it."

There was a drawn-out silence.

"You, your mother, your sister, and the dawg - yes. Your brother - no." He said it matter-of-factly. There was no maliciousness in his voice.

"I...guess he'll be all right without us, Sir," I replied, sounding sad. "Him being a man grown and all. It's not like he spends much time around the house...I'll talk to Mother and maybe we'll come without him," I heard myself saying, "but I doubt she'll agree. Family is important to us Protasians," I added for propriety's sake.

I was going to be leaving with Jons it would be best if he had a good impression of me, that he knew what a loyal little fellow I was. No need for him to know I had absolutely no intention of inviting my brother along.


	26. CHAPTER 19 - BROTHERS IN ARMS

The trio of Imperial Guardsmen caught up with us. Mazzo was up front, his eyes constantly moving and his lasgun ready for action at the smallest provocation. Sarge walked a handful of meters behind him; not too far away, but none too close either. Sarge wasn't wearing a helmet, just a field cap. No lasgun. Instead he carried an ominous-looking weapon with a very large bore and twin drum magazines. Highly irregular. Rovo brought up the rear with a heavy support las mounted on some sort of suspension harness. With the war-torn landscape framing them it looked like a scene strait out of a recruitment poster.

Jons greeted them. "Well, if it isn't my bastard brothers from another mother."

Mazzo returned the greeting. "You're more like the sissy sister from another mistress. But hello to you too." All four men started grinning like crazy and there was much hand-shaking, back-patting, and shoulder-squeezing.

Even while greeting one another they took care to stay low, in cover, and with one man always on the alert. "This isn't your first war together, is it?" I asked naively. Mostly for show; I was pretty sure of the answer.

Sarge - the Commissar had called him by his name, but is seemed wrong to think of him as anything other than the 'Sarge' - give me an appraising look, then gestured towards me with the assault shotgun held casually in his right hand. "No it isn't. But it looks like it will be the last. And by His name do I intend to keep these three morons alive long enough to see them try their hand at farming and raising little kids."

He said that in a way that got me thinking I would be mightily sorry if one of them ended up dead because of this mission. Because of me.

Rovo elaborated. "We've been soldering together for years boy. Out on the Spinward Front."

"Before there even was a Spinward front," Mazzo interjected.

"Fighting xenos reavers, local insurrectionist groups, you name it. But most of all we fought motherfucking orks - and then we got stabbed in the back by the damned Severan Dominate," Rovo added.

Up close I could see the gun Rovo carries had three barrels. It was the same type of weapon he had manned at the guard post. Without the suspensor harness I couldn't see how could have carried it, not without wearing power armour or something. A thick cable connected the weapon to a backpack-like power cell.

Sensing my confusion Mazzo picked up the thread. "The Severan Dominate would be the treasonous curs flying the colours of Duke Severus XIII, the subsector commander of the Periphery. Rebels and heretics; much like you Protasians in fact."

I bowed my head in deference. I had no desire to antagonize Mazzo at this time.

"Our regiment fell below fighting strength," Rovo supplied, "so we were rotated out. We were on our way back to Lo when this shit hit the fan," he waved one arm at the surrounding ruins. "There was suddenly a desperate need for experienced soldiers. Next you know we were once again fighting under a strange skies."

"I had the bloody discharge papers in my fucking hand," Rovo interjected, his fingers rolled up into a fist. "Instead we got sent to a new warzone, with nothing but green IGs as far as the eye can see."

I wasn't really up to speed on Imperial Guard operations, so I let it show on my dirty little Protasian face.

Jons came to the rescue. "It's like this: When you join the Guard - be it by draft or enlistment - there are really on two ways out. Death or victory."

Sarge. "There are three ways - if you count the cripples, but let's not go there." The other three nodded in silent agreement.

Jons. "Victory for a Guardsman is when he's survived what the galaxy has thrown at him - and his regiment has fallen below fighting strength. Once that happens you're rotated off the fighting lines. You either get shipped back home - or you get dropped off somewhere else. Depends on what the paper-pushers think is best of the Imperium."

My face was starting to look a little less confused.

"So if it wasn't for your peasant rebellion we'd be back on Lo right now, pockets full of Thrones and a modest grant of property. Heroes sent home to show that there is a reason for the God-Emperor's Tithe. Instead we got to fight - and die - one more time. If we survive we get to settle here instead of going home. What a laugh the gods must be having at our expense." Mazzo clearly wasn't the merry member of this four-man band.

Roverto. "He means well kid. It's just that there are only us four of us left now. Only four of the original members of K-company. There were six when we came to Thira. We'd rather not lose any more."

"I think I understand," I muttered. "I've lost my father. And I haven't heard from most of my friends, or any of the neighbours, in a long while." I added a little sniff for good measure.

Sarge gave me a mean smile in return. "No kid, you sure as hell don't understand. Not yet. But I'm sure the fucking galaxy will show you soon enough." And with that he turned his back to me and pretended I didn't exist.

"Listen up brothers," Jons said in a calm, but insistent tone. "You're all as stupid and stubborn as any ork I ever met. And I've met a few. You wanna tag along, fine. I obviously can't stop you. But we play this my way, or no way at all."

There was a general consensus in the form of harking, ground-stomping, and cleaning of nails.

"Let's do it by the numbers; let me know what we've got. Mazzo."

Mazzo had made himself comfortable on a slab of fallen rockrete. He made a half-assed salute from seated position. "Lance Corporal Mazzo, present and accounted for. M36 lasrifle. Ten mags total." He tapped his five dual magazines in turn, first the one in his rifle, then the four in his vest pockets. "Tactical grenade attachment." He slapped the bulky tube under the rifle barrel. "The usual mix of launcher grenades. Six frag - one in the tube - and three krak, couple of smoke, one starshell - don't know how that got in there - and I'm still carrying around that old plasma grenade I found in that depot on Kulth." The twelve spare grenades were neatly arranged in various slots in his webbing, secure, but easily accessible.

Sarge, speaking without turning. "You don't know it's a plasma grenade, Mazzo. The markings are completely worn away and that enginseer that 'confirmed' your crazy idea was even crazier than you. We're so going to regret it when you pop the 'plasma' and it turns out to be confetti."

Mazzo continued, unfazed. "Got my bayonet and entrenching tool. Both have been recently sharpened - one of these days I'm gonna get me some with that spade."

Sarge looked crestfallen, but said nothing out loud.

"My lucky stub automatic," Mazzo went on, touching a compact holster on his belt, almost hidden from view by all the ammunition and utility pouches. "One clip in, two in the holster." The holster had pair of special pockets for spare magazines.

Next he pointed at two long polymer tubes strapped to his combat pack, one on each side, flanking the entrenching tool in its form-fitted compartment. "Oh, and two of those disposable missile launchers the Major acquired for us before Thira. Plus the usual crap - I mean kit - stuffed in my combat pack."

"And I have water," he said, wriggling his hips to shakes the two canteens hanging from his utility webbing.

"Nice moves there, brother," Jons commented, evoking quite a bit of laughter from the other men. "Rovo, you're up next."

Rovo replied promptly and professionally. "Guardsman First Class Roverto, present and ready. I got the multi from the guard post. The suspensors are working just fine. Same with the preysight and the tracking harness. Charge pack fully loaded and ready, fifteen hundred rounds at standard power."

Rovo was fitted with a carapace clamshell over his flak jacket, instead of the reinforced combat vests the other men were wearing. The charge pack was clipped to the back, while the multi-barrelled lascannon was mounted on a sort of telescoping arm bolted to the clamshell armour. The gun and the ammo pack looked like they balanced each other out, but even with suspensor support it must have been a bitch to carry. Fortunately Rovo was a pretty massive fellow, so if anyone could handle such a weapon it would be he. Roverto's helmet had a special retractable monocle that I supposed was the preysense sight he had mentioned.

"I've got the hand cannon I cheated that Gunmetallican out of." A positively huge revolver sat strapped onto his chest-plate, secured by a fast-draw rig. It was positioned so that he could easily reach the stub revolver, without interfering with the gun mount. "Five in the cylinder. Two fast-loaders and a handful of spare ammo." He nodded to himself. "Other than that, just my standard combat load. Trauma kit," he said, patting a pouch on his hip, next to one of his canteens. "No pack. Mazzo has the rest of my kit." With the lascannon charge pack strapped to his back, there was no way he could carry his own combat pack.

He seemed about done, but then remembered something at the last moment. "And Mazzo has the auspex, even if he didn't report it. Sir."

Mazzo waved the auspex unit about in response. "Sorry, Sir."

Jons grinned in response; clearly this exchange was something an old joke between the men.

"Staff Sergeant 'Sarge', K-coy, present and ready," Sarge said before Jons had time to call him out. "Primary weapon is the Lathes Pattern Arbitrator Assault Weapon. Currently loaded with one drum each of AP-flechette and AP-explosive. Got two extra drums of each of those, plus one with HD-penetrators," a sly grin crept onto his face, "just in case we see any renegade Astartes."

There was a great deal of chuckling from two of the other three. Mazzo, however, went stone-faced. "Fuck. You. Fuck all of you."

I found myself listening intently. What story lay hidden beneath the surface?

Mazzo. "How was I supposed to know they were dummies? They looked like real Space Marines to me, so I reported it in as per regimental standing orders. I even looked up the markings. The Infantryman's recognition charts said they were Word Bearer renegades. You'd done the same if any of you had spotted them!"

Jons, struggling to keep his laughter in check. "Of course we would."

Rovo. "You sure they were renegade dummies?" He started giggling like a little girl. "Not just some other sort of dummy, maybe allied dummies?"

Even Sarge smiled at that. Mazzo fumed, but I could see it was nothing serious. He was having fun too. Even if it was fun at his expense.

"That's enough talk of the Angels of Death", Jons interrupted. "It's not wise to speak of them - unless you wish for them to come for you."

It sounded like utter rubbish to me, superstition of the basest kind, but it had the desired effect on Jons' squadmates. They shut up and settled down again, their merriment gone like mist before the sun.

"My trusted hellpistol," Sarge said. I recognized the heavy, long-barrelled pistol from my close encounter at the guard post. "Three extra charge packs for the pistol. The power blade I got off that ork on Sisk. A brace of frag and smoke grenades. Six multi-charges stuffed in my pack. No bayonet on account of upgrading to power blade. And I seem to have misplaced my entrenching tool..."

More laughter.

"Think that sums it up. The usual crap in my pack. Including, my brothers, an extra pair of fresh socks, straight from the d-pot."

There was a final burst of laughter over the socks. I didn't get that one, but I found myself grinning madly alongside the soldiers - the good mood was contagious. Even if they were the enemy.

Jons. "Corporal Jons, present and ready. I've got my usual kit - plus this kid." He jerked his finger towards you. The other three Guardsmen smiled easy smiles in response. I made an effort to smile back at them.

"My longlas and the Eye are both ready. Got seven mags total," he patted the power pack in the rifle and the two extra ones in his vest, "four of them stashed in the pack."

Those would be the four he had taken from the shed. I figured that if he was going over his normal combat load, he must be expecting real trouble, which I supposed was reason for concern.

"Sliver pistol for sidearm. Just the one mag, but it's a hundred shots." I could see a slender gun stuck in a holster pocket at the back of his utility belt; no chance of it interfering with his main weapon, but still easily accessible, even from prone position.

Jons continued his muster. "I have the vox, plus I got a brace of these rover drones." He plucked one of the charcoal cellulose containers he'd retrieved from the guard post shed out of his pack. I had taken them for over-sized grenade canisters. He peeled of a sealant strip and opened the box. Inside was a small ceramite-and-polymer drone. "Not much of a fighter, but excellent for recon work."

Mazzo. "I'll see if I can patch them into the auspex. Those tiny flexi-displays they come with are crap." Jons nodded.

Rovo had a wide grin on his face by now. "We've been worse off than this my brothers." He got a flat stare back from Sarge, shutting him up. The smile didn't go away though.

"So, what's the plan?" Mazzo said while absentmindedly plucking at the loading mechanism of his tactical grenade attachment.

Jons got up from crouching position. "The plan is," he says, turning to face me. "The plan is: time to find your mother."

About bloody time, I thought.


	27. INTERLUDE - BROTHERS AND SISTERS

Sister-Palatine Salinaria had every reason to be pleased with herself and the Sororitas under her command. The local congregation of heretical followers of the Word of Light had been exposed and eradicated. That Thira was free of their taint, without requiring extreme sanction, gladdened her heart. Inquisitor Vaarak had made it painfully clear to all involved parties what would happen, should they fail at their divinely appointed task: the city and every soul within would need to be consigned to oblivion.

But they hadn't failed; with the God-Emperor guiding their actions they had succeeded - and the city had been saved. Even if just this one city survived and could be reconsecrated, it would be grand victory for the Imperial Creed, a bright new start, here on heretical Protasia. It was going so well that even now the Inquisitorial field office was stepping down, from fully operational, to standby mode.

Prelate Zhukov would be very pleased indeed. As would First Minister Verrigan, who could finally take possession of the fief he had been granted by Governor Grimes. Salinaria and her girls had played no small part in making it happen. She wouldn't get much recognition for it though. The Inquisition and those higher up the chain of command would hug all the glory. It didn't matter. What mattered was a job well done. Besides, the only true glory in the galaxy belonged to the God-Emperor of Mankind!

What made her doubly glad was the nature of the heretics they had purged: The Word of Light was a perverse version of the Imperial Creed, replacing the light of the God-Emperor of Mankind with the dark malevolence of the Ruinous Powers. At the surface it seemed so innocent, but deeper down it was heresy of the darkest sort - contagious and soul-consuming.

There could be no salvation for those who started down that path - only cleansing fire awaited the heretic.

Kaminsky kept his scarred, eyeless face turned towards the armoured viewport. The Strike Cruiser Ignorance is Bliss hung in a low orbit above the troubled atmosphere of Phagir, the accursed former homeworld of the Green Knights Chapter. Every ninety minutes and seventeen seconds they passed over the mighty peaks of Mons Callidum - the Mountain of the Wise - formerly the site of the Green Knights' fortress-monastery. Like jagged blades of white and grey the mountaintops sliced through the clouds, creating infinitely complex patterns where before there had been only calm uniformity.

The breath-taking view invoked a sense of utter revulsion. Kaminsky welcomed the feeling. It hadn't always been like this, he mused. Once upon a time the view had been a source of awe and pride; coming or going, the Knights would always pay their respects to the Mons. Before the Achilus Crusade. Before the harrowing losses the Chapter has sustained. Before the Chapter Master had ordered the Release.

Thinking about the Release: It was the unanswered questions that pained him the most. How could madness and stupidity be conjoined so? In a man that was supposed to be the exemplar of everything virtuous and wise? When did Chapter Master Belkovets first succumb to insanity? Why did none of the officers see it, and try to stop him?

That last question was an unfair one, and Kaminsky knew it. Most of the officers were already dead, fallen alongside their men on far-away battlefields. The few officers that remained at Phagir were not close to Belkovets. No man was. Not anymore. Not the Chief Librarian. Not the First Chaplain. Not even Colour Seregant Anatoliy, who had soldiered alongside Belkovets since they were both scouts of the 10th Company.

That damnable secrecy! It had begun when the Chapter received its false orders to deploy to the Margin Worlds. As the Achilus Crusade raged on it had only gotten worse. By the end, as the very existence of the Chapter hung in the balance, none of his battle-brothers had known, because of the gulf that had grown between them and their Chapter Master. Kaminsky realized that now.

But still, they should have been there to stop him. They should have done something. But they hadn't. Not a single suspicion voiced. Not a single weapon raised in defiance. Not Chief Librarian Evgeny. Not First Chaplain Leontiy. Not poor Anatoliy; how he had wept as he later swung the blade that executed his old friend and former commander.

Kaminsky sighed heavily. He should have been there to stop Chapter Master Belkovets. But Kaminsky's insights had come too late - at the time of the Release he had still been heavily sedated, locked within the sterile confines of the apothecarium.

How it stung, knowing that he just lain there, even as the heroes of the Chapter had fallen under distant suns and been left to rot. Never before had the Green Knights suffered such losses, nor been forced to endure the dishonour of abandoning the dead and their hallowed battle-gear. Not during the Meritech Wars. Not during the War of the Fifth Circle. Not during their years as a fleet-based chapter.

By the time Kaminsky had reawakened it was simply too late. Nothing he could ever do, no matter how grand the feat, could set right the wrongs done by the Release: The Green Knights Chapter of Adeptus Astartes was damned in the eyes of men. And infinitely worse; they were damned in the eyes of the God-Emperor of Mankind.

Kaminsky rolled onto his back, staring into infinity with sightless eyes, remembering, as only a space marine can remember.

The Chaos warrior was strong in a manner that not even a space marine could match. Not even Kaminsky's superhuman brawn, boosted by the finest power armour the Mechanicus could make, was enough to make a difference. Blow after blow rained down, and all he could do was to try to stay alive. His blessed force sword, forged by no lesser man than Chief Librarian Evgeny, was the thin line between him and the wicked blade the enemy wielded. Kaminsky could feel the daemon, bound within the pitted and corroded metal of the weapon, hungering for his soul.

Kaminsky's force sword was nearly torn from his grasp. The warrior had broken down his defences, not through skill, but by way of relentless hammering. The enemy's unholy blade slipped between the primary armour plates protecting his thorax, guided by the hungry spirit bound into the warp-steel, and bit deep into Kaminsky's bowels. The Chaos warrior immediately yanked his blade up with the same, inhuman strength, ripping through a host of life-essential organs, including Kaminsky's primary heart.

Kaminsky's psychically boosted return strike took the warrior's head clean off - with his blade stuck inside the librarian's chest, the enemy had no means of defence.

Both combatants crashed to the ground. The Chaos warrior was dead before he touched the dirt. Kaminsky was mortally injured - even the superhuman physiology of a space marine can take only so much.

"Brother Kaminsky," a distant voice said. "I feared you were lost." The words were hollow and false, but what honour they had left demanded they be said.

Kaminsky turned his empty eye sockets skyward and looked up at Brother-Captain Ivanov. "Not today, Brother, not today," he replied.

The space marine captain reached out an arm and helped pull Kaminsky to his feet. "Your suit is a mess; I will call for a tech-marine."

Mess. That was an understatement. He could stick his fingers through a massive rend in the cuirass to touch bare skin. The suit readouts were so far into the red it wasn't even funny; it was miracle of the Machine God that the suit was still mobile. It would require months of painstaking work to be restored to anything resembling a battle-ready condition.

"Leave us." Another voice. A human voice, but filled with such power of command that even Astartes felt compelled to obey.

"Your wish," Ivanov replied, head bowed deferentially, and then quickly retreated.

Only one man could evoke such obeisance from the Captain of the Green Knights. "My Lord Soldevan," Kaminsky said without turning, "I beg your forgiveness for not kneeling in your presence. My armour seems to be damaged."

"I can see that," the voice replied, laden with sarcasm. "But you could at least have turned to face me, out of courtesy. Never mind; you were prone when I found you. I'll take that as a sign of your obeisance."

Soldevan stepped into his field of view. Vested as always when he strode into battle, in the crimson and black power armour of an Ordo Xenos Inquisitor.

"The gash in your armour; I think it might have something to do with the Chaos blade I pulled out of your chest." Soldevan gestured lazily towards Kaminsky with the jagged blade that had torn through the librarian's body just a few hours earlier.

Kaminsky made to reply, but the Inquisitor lifted his left hand to silence him. "It is no mean feat, Brother-Epistolary, to recover from such grievous injuries. No mean feat at all. To heal so quickly, so completely...especially when injured by a weapon like this," Soldevan slowly turned the blade, presenting it in all its dark glory, "it almost defies belief, doesn't it? If I didn't know better, I'd call it a miracle of the God-Emperor!"

Kaminsky was mortified. The Inquisitor knew. How could he not, if he had pulled that sword out of Kaminsky's flesh, and then sat by and watched his body repair itself at an impossible rate? He knew. He knew, and therefore he must die.

"Panicking will do you no good, librarian, so think carefully before you act." The threat was unmistakeable. "Besides, your psychics are next to useless against me - and I wager I'll be able to push this sword right back where I found it."

Kaminsky wasn't so sure about that. The Inquisitor was a skilled warrior, but he was still only human. If it came to blows Kaminsky was certain he could take Soldevan down.

"I have a trick or two up my sleeve, so don't be so certain of your victory," the Inquisitor replied, as if he had read Kaminsky's thoughts. Which he most certainly hadn't; Soldevan wasn't a psyker, just a very good judge of character.

"Whatever the outcome - you lose," Soldevan added in a soft voice, daring Kaminsky to act. "Lift your hand against me, and your entire Chapter will be declared Excommunicate Traitoris."

Kaminsky stood there, towering over the dark-skinned Inquisitor, feeling his determination drain away. He suddenly had no appetite for violence.

"Don't be such an ignominious idiot, librarian," the man with the white hair and matching, neatly trimmed beard burst out. "I'm not here to bring your precious Chapter to ruin. I'm here looking for weapons."

He lifted the sword high, point to the heavens, and then fixed Kaminsky with his gaze. "And I think you and your brothers are just the weapons I came looking for."

Relief mixed with dread as Kaminsky listened to Inquisitor Soldevan explain the future of his Chapter in no uncertain terms.

The machine spirit that dwelled within his suit of hallowed power armour relayed the alert directly into Kaminsky's mind: Librarian to the astropathic chamber. Code Amber. Incoming message. Encryption protocol: Obsidian Ultima.

It could mean only one thing. An incoming transmission from the Inquisition. A new target for the Deathwatch Company of the Green Knights Chapter to annihilate. It would not save the chapter, nor restore its honour, but by the God-Emperor was it good to do what angels do best: To kill.


	28. CHAPTER 20 - THE OTHERS

There is still some emotional drift. Playback starts out at your preferred level of emotional immersion, but given time the simulation is able to adapt to circumvent your filters. After a while you're not just there, riding Haxtes ghost-style, you become the Haxtes persona. Seeing what he sees, feeling what he feels. It's happened several times now.

It's nothing major, absolutely not dangerous. Just bloody annoying, especially since you've made quite an effort to avoid it. You're not used to being thus outmanoeuvred. You normally have full control over your mental architecture. This tome is challenging you in ways you haven't experienced before.

It's time you stepped up to the challenge; time to truly be the prodigal interrogator. Show Haxtes and Vern that no artefact, no matter how advanced, can measure up to the human mind in all its psychic glory.

You schedule more frequent monitoring of the emotional buffer flow-through. This will prevent the interactive mind being overwhelmed by unwanted emotions. It means a bit more work for the observation compartment, which will strain your mental and psychic faculties a bit, but you can handle it.

Your physical body is holding up well enough. It's still there in the chamber, pretending to read the tome. You don't want to push it too far on the first day. One more immersive session and you call it a day, take a piss, grab something to eat, and have a good night's sleep. You alter some of the movement parameters to look livelier, and then head back in for today's final session.

Haxtes is standing to the side of the desk with Vern, talking in hushed tones up at a third figure. She's positively the biggest woman you've ever laid eyes on, standing at least two meters twenty. She doesn't look like a mutant freak, so that means she's of ogryn gene-stock.

The few ogryns you've run into in the line of duty have all been big, burly males. Hulking brutes recruited from this or that death-world, possessing nearly limitless strength and fortitude, but little in the way of intelligence or social skills.

Ogryns are the distant descendants of human stock geneered to survive on borderline garden worlds. Places with very high gravity, extremely forbidding terrain, or inherently hostile biospheres. Supposedly they were as smart as other humans once. During the Age of Strife their homeworlds devolved into death worlds, and the ogryns themselves evolved to become even stronger and tougher, but at the expense of higher socio-mental faculties.

This one is a bit different. It's not just her gender that sets her apart. Her face is kind of cute, with an unruly mop of strawberry blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face. She looks right at you: Her eyes aren't cute at all; pale blue, and angry as hell. And intelligent; the mind inside is as sharp as any you've touched upon.

Intriguing, but you're just not in the mood to meet a girl that weighs at least twice as much as you, and could rip your head right off your spine if she wanted to. No matter how smart or cute that girl might be. Maybe later, if you get overwhelming masochistic urges, and want to combine them with refined conversation.

Haxtes dismisses both of them with a hand gesture. There is an undeniable aura of authority around him now. Both the giant woman with the impressive physique and Vernissimon consider him to be their superior, even if there are no signs of a formal leadership role on Haxtes' part. Is the gatekeeper not just the gatekeeper, but the overall security manager? You file away the information for later; it will need investigating.

"Please Marcus, have a seat." Haxtes gestures politely towards 'your' chair.

You move over to the chair, but do not sit down. "The other staff members you mentioned. And the big girl, she would be the anti-intrusion persona? Or does she have another function?"

Haxtes rewards you with a brief twitch of the lips. "Very perceptive of you, Marcus." He picks up the decanter. It's been refilled with a green-and-gold liquid and the glasses replaced. "You are correct. She is part of the security detachment. Her brief appearance was brought on by your incessant attempts to bypass me." He gives you a cold look, but his eyes twinkle with...playfulness? Or do you misread him?

"I would also like for you to meet Venus, the resident tech-priest." He gestures towards the darkness beyond the edge of the light. You turn to look, but no one appears. "But I'm afraid your constant manipulation of the tome's interface is having her running ragged to compensate."

You give him a questioning look.

"We don't want the connection to terminate prematurely, do we?" Haxtes replies.

"No, we don't," you concede. "While we're on the topic of others; you mentioned other visitors. I would know more about them," you say, not really expecting him to tell you much.

"I'm sure you would," Haxtes replies. "Another drink perhaps?" Haxtes says, changing the subject.

"Not really," you reply. "Not unless it helps persuade you to tell me some of what I want to know?"

"It might at that," Haxtes answers. "This one is a Brontian brandy, brewed on some local variety of pears and carefully fortified with Ghostfire pollen." He holds out the decanter for you to observe.

"Ghostfire pollen?" you remember reading that it's a possible component in frenzon-type combat drugs. A commodity that the Calixis sector is sometimes called upon to tithe to the Imperium.

"Indeed. Ghostfire pollen. The sole tithe of the war-torn agri-world of Iochantos. Primarily used to brew up a Calixian variety of frenzon. But it has secondary applications as well. So, are you up for a taste?"

"Very well then. But make it a small one. And some information about the others on the side," you add jokingly and drop into the waiting chair.

"Well," Haxtes begins reluctantly, "there have been others. A variety of others. Seeking either the secrets of Melbinious for their own gain or wishing to catalogue the work on behalf of the Inquisition. Or both at the same time. None were able to get very deep; they were incompetent, lacked security clearances, had odious personalities, came in already morally corrupted, that sort of thing. The majority either disconnected voluntarily or were shut out. A handful had their minds hacked. A couple got their brains fried."

"Interesting. Could you be more specific?" you ask.

"No. Not at this time, anyway. Maybe later." Haxtes pours the drink and hands it to you. "Go ahead, tell me what you think." Haxtes waits for you to take the first sip.

You consider pushing him some more, but decide against it. You raise the glass to your lips and taste the liquid. The drink is most unusual, cool and spicy at the same time. A most pleasant warmth starts spreading from your belly, seeping into every corner of your body and mind. You have another, larger sip for good measure.

"This really is something special," you exclaim.

Haxtes puts the glass to his lips and drains half of it in two large swigs. "Aye," he says, sounding like an old Rogue Trader captain out of a bad holo-play. "Not vintage amasec, but definitely special. Popular among trader captains. Warms the soul on those long and lonely void flights. A few bottles of this and a couple of hussies to warm the body, and a man need never be cold again."

He takes his seat and looks at you. "Are you quite comfortable? Shall we proceed?"

"Aye," you say, trying to ape his space-pirate inflection, but failing miserably.


	29. CHAPTER 21 - AN ACCORD

"We found Mother a few hours later," Haxtes says. His voice is as dead as ever. "Or rather, Nix found her."

You're momentarily confused. "Nix? You mean the canine?"

"Yes."

"You didn't mention him again, so I assumed he was back at the apartment or something."

Haxtes points a finger at you. The gesture is accusing, but his voice tells you it is more chiding than rebuke. "The family dog is not in the narrative because you're not fully committing yourself. If you had just stuck with deep immersion, rather than bobbing in an out, you would probably have noticed him slinking around."

Is Haxtes trying to use humour to make you to drop your wards? Well, that's not going to happen.

"I had some of that earlier. I think I'll save the really deep immersion for later. For when something more...substantial than your canine is on the table. No offense intended," you say

"No offense taken," Haxtes says graciously. "And besides, who cares about the beast? It was my brother's dawg. I only cared for it because Jax didn't bother. Family is important to Protasians, remember? And Nix was family."

Haxtes suddenly leans forward and speaks in a whisper, as if confiding in you. "You have to pay attention to the details Marcus. You need to know my secrets. It's the only way Jarra - that would be the tall blonde with the big boobs - will let you past her guard later on."

"I've not intention of," you start to protest, but Haxtes cuts you off. "Yes you have. If you're going to keep trying to get past me...at some point you'll have to deal with her." He leans forward and his voice becomes a whisper. "I'm her darling sweetheart you know...pretending to be me to get to the sweet sugar she so jealously guards from other men...I'm thinking that's your best shot."

What? Did he just imply you have to put on a disguise and have sexual relations with the blonde giant inside this simulation? Or is he pulling your leg? Can a simulation, even an interactive simulation, be sufficiently advanced that it can be toying with your mind using innuendo? When you add its attempts to get into your head...this tome is not just amazing; it is borderline disturbing.

Haxtes executes an enormously exaggerated wink at you, sits back and resumes in a more normal voice. "Nix wasn't back at the apartment. He was with me the whole time. He usually was. He was also a bit shy around other people." He pauses.

"Go on," you say, "don't be shy."

You're rewarded with an uncommonly heartfelt grin. "No, that's an understatement. After Jax abandoned him he became a one-person kind of canine. The Haxtes kind of canine."

"You ever had a pet, Marcus?" he suddenly asks.

"No," you reply curtly. "I find animals noisome and too filthy for my tastes."

Haxtes' smile evaporates. "He was never sufficiently socialized with other dogs or people when he was little. And of course then the war came, and that screwed up his head even more. Jax can take the blame for the lack of socialization, and the war trauma I'll claim was out of my hands."

"So basically your canine slinked away whenever you got near other people?" you ask rhetorically. "Not much use as a guardian then."

"Guardian? What makes you think he was a guard canine? He was of a rather large breed, but he wouldn't attack a human unless he was cornered, hurt, and desperate."

Sounds completely useless to you. A waste of space, time and food. You're more than happy to just let this part of the conversation die.

"He had followed me to the compound, waited for me to return, and then followed me and Jons at a distance. I knew he was out there; he always was. Jons had spotted him long ago of course. He wouldn't be much of a scout-sniper if not. Jons didn't say anything though. I don't think he initially realized that Nix was following me. Took him for a stray dawg hoping for scraps I suppose."

"Could we skip a bit forward? To when you found your mother?" It's not a very polite thing to ask, but you figure that if you don't try to bypass the worst of the Vern-like digressions you'll never get reach the treasure trove.

"Certainly," he says and takes a large swallow from his glass.

"We'd joined with the other IGs and had worked our way around the Forbidden Zone and were heading east into the area where most of the remaining civilian population was housed - the Indig Zone the Guardsmen called it. The Imperium is big on divvying up stuff into zones."

He reaches forward to refill his nearly empty glass. "This stuff really does warm the soul. Too bad I didn't discover it before." He waves the decanter in your direction. "More?"

"No, thank you. Just proceed with the tale," you reply.

"We were passing through a particularly devastated area, several blocks in each direction completely smashed. Only a few skeletal building frames were left standing. Enormous piles of rubble. Thousands of tons of burned-out Imperial armoured vehicles, including a mammoth Baneblade super-heavy tank. Three hundred Imperial tonnes of mechanized death, turned into a twisted metal coffin, a tombstone for the brave crewmen. A seemingly endless number of shot-up Protasian defensive positions framed this snapshot of urban warfare in the 41st Millennium."

Vivid mental images accompany his speech, providing you with more detail than you could possibly desire. "But no shell casings?" you ask, having seen very few.

"Shell casings? Why would there be shell casings? The Imperial Guard uses lasweapons for the most part. No casings there. The Protasian PDF had lots of fancy hi-tech weapons, but the grunts on the ground came equipped with autoguns galore. Those fire caseless ammo you know.

"Of course they do," you reply, "I was presuming stubbers. I forgot just how advanced Protasia is."

Haxtes gives you a blank look. "And?"

"Speaking of which, why weren't you using lasweapons, same as the Imperial Guard?"

"Stubbers, autoguns, or lasguns. Doesn't really matter much. The lasgun is the better weapon, but autoguns and stubbers are good enough to get the job done. Despite Jons' confidence in lasweapons, in a firefight between grunts on the ground, the difference is minimal."

"I follow you, but if lasweapons are the best guns, even if the margin is slim, why not use them?" you ask.

"On an overreaching strategic level it's a question of efficiency," Haxtes replies. "Ammunition consumption compared to hit ratio being the most important variable."

He lifts a finger to forestall any questions. "For local planetary governments the equation is complicated by cost. Lasguns are slightly more complex, slightly more expensive to make - and maintain. The Imperium has the Mechanicus tithe them vast amounts of these weapons, so cost is not an issue for the Imperial Guard. All that matters to them is they need to keep weight down and resupply needs as low as possible, since they almost always will be deploying across interstellar distances and dropping from orbit to get to their warzones."

"And the Protasian PDF had neither the Mechanicus nor the limitations, so they went for autoguns," you venture. "For Protasia those weapons represented the best mix of cost and efficiency."

"Touché," Haxtes replies. "Had Protasia been less advanced, stubbers would have been the answer. A step down from autogun, but still more than capable of killing. Even opponents with fancy energy weapons. But we are digressing and need to get back on topic."

You give him an encouraging nod.

"Nix suddenly appeared on our flank and raced ahead. I was still in the lead so I gave chase. Jons was still hanging back, trying to spot trouble before it could find us. I heard him try to call me back, but I ignored him."

You set you glass down on the table. It's not empty, but you've had more than your fill.

"I came around a corner - it was quite literally just a corner, a big rockrete spire the reached five stories into the air - the rest of the building was a collapsed ruin, scorched by plasmatic fires. And there he was, sitting beautifully in front of one of the few remaining light poles in sight. He'd found my mother."

Dramatic pause.

"Or to be completely correct: Nix found what was left of my mother." Haxtes takes another swig of his refilled Ghostfire drink.

"You mean she was dead?" you ask curtly.

Your body is weary and your physical exhaustion and discomfort is bleeding through into your other mental divisions; you're getting impatient and just a bit irritable.

"Indeed she was. As dead as only the dead can be. As dead as if Bloody-handed Khaine himself had run her through. Dead, dead, and deader than dead."

"How?" it seems only right to ask.

"Oh, the 'loyalists' had gotten to her. Maybe it was chance, maybe they went looking specifically for her, I don't know. Could even be that my dear brother Jax had tipped them off to gain some cred."

You can see why they would do her in. Fraternizing with the enemy is always a hazardous occupation for women. But pinning the blame on Jax seems a bit excessive.

"Whatever the prelude: They caught her and decided to make a lesson of her. Decided to show the rest of the city what happened to whores selling their sweet succour to the enemy."

You can see where this is going. Men are very predictable when it comes to 'punishing' women, especially for 'crimes of infidelity'.

"They had tortured and abused her to the best of their meagre abilities," Haxtes says. "They entirely lacked the sophisticated techniques we two could have employed," he adds drily.

Images of the scene bleed through your buffers. For a few fleeting moments you are there, seeing what they did to his mother through the eyes of one of the insurgents.

It's not pretty. It goes to show what people are capable of doing to other people when they think they can get away with it. On the other hand it's not so bad on the galactic scale of evil. When you work as a field agent for the Ordo Hereticus you get to see a lot of truly sick shit. This isn't vile cultist madness or daemonic cruelty, just plain old human wickedness. It pales in comparison to some of the memories you keep locked away in hidden corners of your mind.

"Kept it going until she was all bloody and broken, but still alive. Then they strung her up on one of those big roadside illuminators to die," Haxtes adds.

There is a certain discipline to the insurgents. They didn't just have their way with the poor woman, they tortured her too. But they did not go berserk and tear her apart. An elderly man in a priestly cassock seemed to be their guiding star, directing their 'efforts' while keeping them firmly under his control. An emerging leader mayhap?

"Before they left they took the time to write 'whore' and 'for Protasia' and other crap on the ground and on the closest building. All in her blood of course. Very creative. I'm pretty sure Khorne was quite proud of them."

You are somewhat wrong-footed by his casual use of one of the more potent names for the Blood God. Using Khaine's name is bad enough, but to openly name Khorne is to invite disaster. This is known.

You find it best to interrupt. "I...experienced the scene...but how is that possible? How could you know this? You were not present. You said so yourself; you found her hanging there, deader than dead. Are these 'memories' stuff conjured from your fears and nightmares?"

"Oh, I was there," Haxtes replies, "and I saw it all, felt it all. Much more intimately than you just did. It was the first time my latent psychic abilities fully manifested themselves. There may have been a few minor flukes before, but this was the first time something very real happened. In the span of a heartbeat I saw my mother's murder play out before me. Saw her despair and heard her cries of agony and fear. Saw the stuff she had acquired for my cake rolling about in the dirt."

He gives you an appraising look. "I'm a telepath like you Marcus, but I'm sure you've already guessed that. Where we differ is that my portfolio of talents also includes some psychometric powers."

Of course. Psychometry. That would explain it. Strong emotions can linger in an area...or cling to a person or object. Those with psychometric talents can pick up on those emotions days or even weeks after the actual events. You've no talent for it, but you know of one Inquisitor who does - you've heard it said that without this particular boon from the God-Emperor, he would never have reached his lofty position.

"It's more than emotions Marcus. Everything sticks; images, sounds, thoughts. Everything. It's just that emotions stick more. A ruined house can be recalled as it were when it was whole, but more so if many people lived there over the years and had strong feelings associated with the place. You see the house as they saw it, experience life there through their emotions."

The tome is reading your thoughts again. It's not just adapting to you emotional filters, it actively adjusting to try to pick up stuff you're trying to hide. Just your surface process, but still...there will be less sleep tonight than planned. Seems you need to work some more on your mental architecture.

"A useful ability to be sure," you offer.

"Sometimes," Haxtes replies. Unfortunately it often proves to be somewhat fickle. People's emotions are not exactly accurate. It's not entirely unlike trying to read a person's future using the Tarot. If you know what you're doing you're going to get something. But you're hardly guaranteed to get anything useful."

"I see," you say. "Actually I'm no great fan of the Emperor's Tarot. I learned some basic spreads back in the Scholastia Psykana, but I never had any great flair for it. I leave that stuff for the Astropaths."

Not exactly true, but again, no need for the tome to know everything.

Haxtes continues. "I never had much control over my psychometry. I get glimpses from time to time - rarely as clear as that first time - but I never developed any deeper skill. That's how it worked for me anyway."

"But," he raises his voice, "I think we should get going again. You'll never get where you want to be at this rate. Actually you'll never get there at all if you're just going to skim the contents of this tome."

"Yes," you reply, "I think it's time we had that talk."

"Go on," Haxtes says, his face a blank slate.

"I'm an agent of the Inquisition. A psyker, trained by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. I don't allow people access to my mind. I've gone much further than I'm comfortable with already, just to be able to interact with you."

Haxtes scratches his beard a little. "It's not that I don't appreciate your sentiment Marcus. I really do. But I think you misunderstand the situation quite fundamentally. There are secrets hidden in this tome. Some of them quite dark grey - if not outright black. The tome bears the Dark Omega proudly - and for good reason. Inquisitor Melbinious would never be so sloppy as to leave such secrets accessible to all. Quite the opposite; this tome is rigorously guarded."

"I follow you," you say.

"Clever lad. Then you understand that part of the security measure involves a pretty thorough scan of whoever tries to access it. We play around a little and I try to hack into your brain. Learn your dark secrets. Until I'm sure you are what you claim to be, I can mess around with you literally forever. Or shut you out for good."

"I was afraid of that," you say, your mind racing. Getting shut out is not an option, but neither is having your mind picked. There must be a middle way.

"But then again giving in to my demands too quickly and easily would be grounds for suspicion in and of itself," Haxtes adds, a smile creeping into the corners of his eyes.

Inquisition paranoia at its best.

"That's why I proposed earlier that you should just listen to my story and get to know the place a little better. I thought you got the message, but obviously you didn't. So let me rephrase: You have to give me something before I give you something. Quid pro quo as they say in High Gothic."

You're not convinced, but say nothing.

"Not saying you should give it all up like a drunk slut on Ascension Day," he adds, "but you do need to go down once in a while to keep me happy. Savvy?"

Again the Rogue Trader mien. Is he trying to tell you something? Did he serve aboard a merchantman? Or is he pulling your leg again. Damn him!

"I think I do. So that's what the tale of Haxtes Guilliman is? An extended mind probe?" you say, betraying none of your inner dialogue.

"Yes. There is a bit more to it than that, but yes." Haxtes tilts his head. "So, do we have an accord?" he asks.

You pick up your glass from the table and raise it, holding it up before your face. Gold bands are swirling, dissipating and reforming in the green depths of the liquid.

"We do. But I'm like a shy virgin. I'm going to take it slow and fool around a bit before there is any real action.

"Suit yourself," Haxtes says, "but like all virgins I bet you'll come around eventually. Might even learn to like it." A wickedly playful grin creeps onto his face.

You ignore his jibe and instead allow yourself to sink deeper into the simulation. You'll play this his way for a while, see what happens.


	30. CHAPTER 22 - THE HAND OF GOD

"You all right boy?" Jons asked. He'd pulled me to the side, into cover behind a burned-out Chimera APC. There was a fist-sized hole where a Protasian melta gun had punched through the armour and overloaded the Chimera's energy stacks. I doubted any of the occupants had made it out. If they had, it would have been as living torches.

I shook my head. I was definitely not all right. Mother was dead. This was supposed to be my day; now it had all gone to shit. Jax was to blame. Always Jax and his shenanigans. And the Commissar for making her stay the night. And Jons for not bothering to see her home. But especially Jax. He should have stayed at home. Should have escorted Mother. If he had stood by his family I'd be eating cake now, not prowling the dusty streets in the company of enemies.

"You shouldn't have had to see that. I'm sorry. I had no idea." He handed me a canteen.

I took my time unscrewing the cork. I needed time to think. Mother must be avenged, that much was clear. And I would have satisfaction for my ruined day. Those responsible would be made to pay.

I quickly realized I needed help to accomplish this. Jax I could probably deal with if I got the jump on him; I could shoot him in the back or stab him in his sleep or something. But I really needed the Guardsmen to strike at the insurgents who committed the actual deed. I didn't have any illusions about getting to the real perpetrators, so I decided to settle for anyone associated with them. And afterwards...well, I would just have to see what happened along the way, but going with Jons to the new place was still an option.

Mazzo had his auspex out, scanning for nearby dangers. Rovo was providing cover, sweeping his lascannon around in slow circles. Sarge was out in the open; with surprising speed and agility he'd climbed up to my mother and was inspecting her.

Sarge shouted down from the light pole. "Mazzo, we got a live one here. Hand me the auspex, I'll do a close-up chem sniff."

"No nearby indigs," Mazzo concluded his sweep before reaching up to hand Sarge the auspex.

"Thanks Mazzo," Sarge said and did something to the control panel. It was no mean feat hand climbing a light pole like that in full kit while juggling an auspex.

After a minute or so he slid back down to the ground. "We got a live bomb. Some homebrewed explosives and the usual mixed shrapnel. Nothing I can't disarm." He threw the auspex over to Mazzo, unfastened his combat vest and let it slide gently to the ground. The assault shotgun followed suit.

"I'll go make a perimeter sweep," Mazzo said. "So when you blow yourself up, I won't be around to get hit by the shrapnel."

Sarge. "Funny man. Now go make yourself useful."

Sarge ascended the pole again. It took a while, but eventually he managed to disarm the bomb. He cut my mother down. Jons stepped over to help catch her. Between them they laid her body gently on the ground. Sarge got a thermal blanket from his pack, using it to cover up her nudeness and her injuries. Only her pale, waxen face and her dark, dirty hair were showing.

"It's best if you go look at her," Jons said. Most of the water was still in the canteen - or on the ground. "Say your goodbyes. Then we'll bury her as best we can. She deserves that." Pause. "And it's all we have to give." He bowed his head.

The scene has touched the heart of the Guardsman who in life knew Haxtes' mother only as a whore. But you wonder; would Jons have done differently by her if it was his planet that rebelled, and 'his' women that gave themselves to the enemy? You're pretty sure you know the answer to that question.

"You all right boy?" Jons asked again.

"I'm all right," I told him, eyes dry, voice calm and steady.

He looked at me for a long time. I met his gaze without flinching. He finally nodded in agreement.

"Good," he said, "then you can help me avenge her. You can help me find the bastards who did this - and then we're going to kill them."

Sarge finished wrapping Mother, and then instructed Mazzo to go find a spot to bury her.

"I can't do to them what they did to her. But what I can do, I can do to all of them. One life for all of theirs," Jons added.

I just looked down, into the dusty street. So simple. And here I had feared it would take all sorts of theatricals to get him to help me. Jons must have had a really soft spot for Mother. Well, I would be giving him the daughter as a replacement, so for him the deal just kept getting better and better.

Sarge, uncharacteristically sombre. "Make that 'we' son. Jons is going nowhere on his own. We do this as a team, or not at all. End of discussion."

Jons looked about to protest, but in the end he kept his mouth shut. It was almost too sweet; I got one man on the hook, and the other three were swallowing it line and sink. To young me it was proof positive that friendship and loyalty would only get you in trouble.

You throttle the emotional flow, rising slowly from deep immersion via the intermediate level to the circle of light setting. You've had about enough of Haxtes and his skewed emotions for one day. You have to wrap this up, interview style, and go get some food and some rest.

"I was deeply concerned. Father was long gone. He was probably residing in the domains of the dead. Now Mother had joined him. Jax had already abandoned us, throwing his lot in with the insurgents rather than sticking with his family. For all practical purposes I was now alone, save a canine that wasn't really mine and a slightly insipid teenage sister. That didn't bode well for the future. Without income we would starve. Without protection we'd be vulnerable."

Your impatience is gaining in strength. He's already made that clear his antipathy towards his brother; it's understandable, if grossly exaggerated. Now he's blaming the rest of the world for his own woes. You want to scream at him, but manage to keep yourself under control.

"Up until this point I had been rather proud of Father's involvement in the war effort, and of my own Protasian heritage. Then and there any illusions I might have had regarding my own people were banished. They could no more be trusted than the Imperials. Abandoned and betrayed; I realized I could not count on anyone but myself."

You don't have to be a telepath to understand that young Haxtes has some deep-seated emotional issues, probably brought about by a combination of metal trauma and his latent psychic abilities.

"They buried her in a shallow grave and covered it with rubble. The IGs were strong men, so some of the rockrete pieces were large enough to deter any scavengers, be they human or beast."

A grave for the kid's mother dug by men who had no doubt killed quite a few civilian Protasians, leaving them to rot where they fell. There is a certain irony here.

"My mother had not been done in on-site. They had probably caught her somewhere in the general area, taken her to a safe location, done their stuff and then returned to string her up. It was a good spot really. Other whores and Imperial sympathizers were likely to pass the site - and draw their conclusions."

Typical terror tactics. In your experience they are of limited usefulness, but they remain in common use.

"The auspex couldn't help us with this. My own fleeting psychic memories were too vague to tell me where their safehouse was located. I did, however, have a few vague faces in my mind, most notably of a man in a priestly cassock. I didn't really know any of them, but I imagined I'd seen my brother with some of them. That suggested they belonged to the Kiones group, but I wasn't entirely sure. At any rate I was certain I would readily recognize them if I saw them again in the flesh."

To you it had looked a lot like an emergency shelter, too small and too finely furnished to be a public shelter. Your guess is a private underground bunker, of the type favoured by a certain breed of the filthy rich. The priestly character you have already concluded is the leader of this particular band of rebels.

"It was Jons who suggested we try to use Nix for tracking. I had never trained him for anything like that - he could find bits of food readily enough, but to follow a trail of blood? I wasn't so sure," Haxtes says, sounding doubtful.

"The Adeptus Arbites use cyber-mastiffs for tracking down perpetrators that try to run," you supply. "I've made use of them on occasion to track runaway heretics. Their olfactory abilities are nothing short of amazing. But the canine handlers have direct mental interfaces with their animals. I can't see how you can do it without." On a whim you add. "Your canine didn't come with an integrated mind impulse unit did he?"

Haxtes harrumphs. "No, he didn't. You don't need a MIU. You just need to know how canines work."

You give him a doubtful look, to show you're not entirely convinced.

"Jons turned out to be an experienced dawg-man. In no time he had Nix eating out of his hand. It didn't take much longer for him to convince Nix that following the scent from the blanket that had covered mother's blood-stained body would earn him endless praise and a steady supply of treats."

"Is this Jons person even real?" you blurt out. "Or is he made-up? It seems awfully convenient to have this canine-loving super-sniper develop a soft spot for little Haxtes." It comes out a bit more aggressive than you intended.

"Aren't you a paranoid sort! Yes, he's real. I didn't learn it until later, but he had been a vermin-hunter on Lo. Which accounted for his stealth, his shooting skills, and his way with Nix. The feral dire-rats of Lo are not to be trifled with; being a rat-catcher on that world is an important, but highly dangerous job. To help them the hunters employ packs of these fast, yet powerful canines. You may have heard of them; the Greyhounds of Lo?"

You shake your head.

"Pity. If ever I get a dawg it will be a Loi Greyhound."

Fat chance of that Mr. Dead Psychic Shadow, you think, a certain amount of glee seeping into your mind.

Haxtes returns to topic. "Since Jons was sure we'd be heading into enemy territory, he had Mazzo fit me with an auspex tracker. It looked like a coin, except with some circuitry showing on one side and an adhesive pad on the other side. Mazzo had me stick it down my pants and fasten it next to my scrotum. Said no-one would look there, not on a boy."

The Inquisition definitely would. The Inquisition looks everywhere. But maybe not the local militia.

"For good measure he rolled out two of the IG issue CAS drones - Compact Autonomous Surveillance drones - he'd acquired earlier. CAS is just a fancy expression for a one-shot recon servoskull," Haxtes explains in case you're not familiar with military jargon.

"He just pulled them out of the protective tubes I had previously mistaken for oversized grenade containers. They folded out their turborotors and floated up in the air on miniaturized grav-coils, waiting for his commands. Jons put the rolled-up flexi-screen controls into his webbing and had Mazzo tie the drones into the auspex. Between the position data in the auspex, my tracker, and the drones, the IGs would have a good view of the situation on the ground."

You're still not entirely sure the Guardsmen are based upon real people. "Mazzo seems have been very familiar with techno-lore. What was he before the draft? A tech-priest?" you say with a certain level of sarcasm in your voice.

Haxtes ignores you. "The four soldiers followed at a distance, out of sight, but not out of auspex tracking range.

In your opinion the story - not just the characters in it - has some serious weaknesses. "Four Guardsmen walking alone, on foot, into enemy territory. Excuse me, but that does seem like a very bad idea. What's to prevent the insurgents from ambushing them?"

"Ah, you've not been to many war-zones, have you? The fighting is over, remember? The Guard won. And the Guard is nothing if not thorough. All resistance has been crushed, and the survivors herded into the Indig Zones." He looks at you, hoping to see a glimmer of comprehension.

Contrary to what Haxtes thinks you've seen war. But he's right in that you're not an expert. You always had other tasks to attend to - the warzones, active or dead, were just another setting for you to investigate for traces of heresy.

Haxtes sighs and tries to explain again. "Yes, there are insurgents about, but they have to be careful. If they take shots at the Guardsmen they know the Imperials will hit back - hard. So they need to stay hidden, strike quickly and then fade away."

"And they could not do this in one of the Indig Zones?" you say, sounding incredulous.

"They could - if they wanted to pay the price. They could hit and fade, but then the Guards would take it out on the civilians. And the insurgents live off the civilians in the Zone; without them there is no recruitment, no supplies, not even a reason for existing."

Realization dawns. "So as long as the Guardsmen are reasonably well-behaved they are actually untouchable within the Indig Zones, but fair game everywhere else?"

"I wouldn't say untouchable; there is always some element of danger, but essentially yes. And," theatrical pause on Haxtes' part, "it wasn't as if the IGs and the locals didn't mix. Beyond the patrols and shakedowns I mean. There was quite the barter economy going on there."

Realization dawns. "Like with your mother. She sold herself for basic supplies. And she wasn't alone."

Haxtes nods. "Far from it. And although carnal pleasures were selling very well, other things were in demand as well. These Guardsmen knew they were going to be settlers soon; they wanted to rob the civilians of as much of their good stuff as possible, before moving on to their designated areas. Food changed hands for gold. Family heirlooms for some medicines."

"Yet things had changed," you conclude. "The insurgents had grown a lot bolder. This Kiones group...they have a charismatic leader. They were trying to force the survivors to take a stand. You mother's fate is proof of that."

Haxtes makes a little bobbing motion with his hand. "Yes. And no. Yes, the Kiones were changing the scene. But no, I seem to recall it wasn't a total crackdown. It was mostly the women that got picked on. I think they let the cold trade be because even the insurgents depended on it. They just went for the women because they were weak and unable to fight back."

You give a bark. "Ha, now you make your fellow Protasians sound like true villains," you exclaim. "Whereas before they were noble and heroic. I can see your urge to get back at Jax pushed you into bed with the enemy."

"Yes, I wanted to get back at Jax," Haxtes admits. "I blamed him for everything. In hindsight that was a bit excessive, but then and there I was thoroughly convinced he was to blame. But with the benefit of said hindsight, some of the blame must still fall on him. He should have been there for us, but instead he'd sided with the very people who would eventually kill our common mother. He was not directly involved, but he was either guilty by association or by neglect - or both."

"I'll accept your judgment, though it seems harsh," you say. "But wouldn't Jons and the others be in real peril now that the insurgents were setting an example? Basic group psychology would indicate that the effect of the terror campaign be greatly reduced if the enemy is allowed to interfere with it."

Haxtes seems pleased you've drawn this conclusion. "Indeed. Actually Jons was counting on it. But he had to be sure we had sufficiently provoked the Kiones. Maybe taking my mother down and burying her wasn't enough to get their blood up. So he was sending me - the dead woman's youngest child - in to be sure we had stirred up the hornet's nest sufficiently for them to come buzzing after us."

You nod in recognition. "Make them come for you. At the very least they will expose themselves. The God-Emperor willing you can even make them fight on your terms."

Haxtes taps his fingers against the side of the desk. "It was early afternoon and the weather was fair, so there were a number of people about. Fewer than normal though. I could sense that they knew what had happened. How could they not? The militia had paraded her down these streets. Poor boy they thought, walking down the street with a gun in hand. Bet he's going to do something stupid. They'll teach the whoreson a lesson in humility!"

"You had your gun out?" you ask.

Haxtes. "Indeed I did. I was planning on shooting somebody. So where else would I have it but my hand?"

"I see," you say. Not your most eloquent comment to date.

"The autumn sun was still high in the sky. I knew the hills would be green and verdant, cooled by a gentle breeze. But not in the city. The ruined streets shimmered with heat."

The blistering, dusty streets of Thira are bright and clear in your mind, so much so you can feel the dust in your nostrils and taste it on your tongue.

"Above me the drones drifted along on anti-grav coils and silent turbofans. I continued down the road, following on Nix' heels. As I walked I contemplated what I must do, and as I did so the dirty nails on my left hand subconsciously tore bloody gouges into my right arm. Bright beads of blood welled up and slowly ticked down exposed flesh. Most of it dried on the way down, covering my arm and the pistol in red lacquer. A few droplets hit the ground, marking my progress, like in the tale when the Primarch of the White Scars, Jaghatai Khan, leaves a trail of blood for his men to follow."

The grin that follows chills your heart. "It would not be the last time my arm ran red."


	31. CHAPTER 23 - LIBRARIAN

You're completely done in. Another four hours have passed since you started your reading session. It seems the deeper you go, the more immersed you become, the more quickly time passes in the outside world.

Looking at the open book you see that you're on page eleven. A small grin reaches your lips. It's not really the flipping of pages that shows your progress, but it's still a graphic reminder that you've yet some distance to cover before you hit the finish line.

Another four hours. Nearly ten hours since your light lunch. Two small, nondescript sandwiches with some unidentifiable fried vegetables on the side, washed down with a canister of lukewarm fruit-emulsion juice. All of it as bland as only force-grown and industrially mass-processed food can be. Your grin broadens: You've been through much worse. Ten hours without food is nothing. Hunger was a constant companion in your youth, and you've been through quite a few scrapes in the service.

Speaking of bodily needs, your bladder is now close to bursting. You don't want to get banned from the librarium for pissing on the floor, so you signal for the lectern-servitor to close the book and return it into storage.

You will return on the morrow, rested and better prepared for a long day of reading.

It takes the better part of an hour to reach the base - that being the upmost level - of the inverted pyramid. Getting out is only marginally faster than getting in. Going in security was preventing unauthorized access. Going out they are concerned with the theft of librarium secrets; unauthorized copying, savant-mnemonics, that sort of thing. Fortunately you've nothing to hide - in that department at least - and the librarium staff speeds you on your way, with nothing but polite smiles and nods.

Well past the finally security point you hurry into a restroom to relieve yourself. Upon your return, five minutes later, you find the reception hall to be completely devoid of life. When you arrived here, around noon, there were thirteen applicants waiting for access to the librarium, seven staff of various flavours, and three gold-cloaked guards. There was considerably less activity here when you hurried through on the way to your long overdue piss, but you spotted a couple of staff. Now it's as silent as the void between the stars.

Is it really that late? A quick chrono check tells you it is not. A tingle of paranoia starts to creep up your spine. Coincidence? Or something more sinister? In your line of work it always pays off to be extra careful.

You finally spot one of the librarium guards coming out of an access way marked with 'Librarium staff only'. In their conical helmets and heavy gold flak-coats they look a little like miniature Custodians. They even have these halberd-like power weapons that can double as bolters in a scrap. You're not so sure how they would measure up to the real Adeptus Custodes in terms of combat prowess. No matter. You're not here to fight.

You signal for the guard's attention. He halts and turns to face you as you approach. He keeps his body oblique with regards to your approach vector, his power-halberd held at the ready. Not too shabby actually; you decide to upgrade his threat rating from Minima to Minioris.

"How can the security staff be of assistance, Sir?" the guard inquires.

"It seems unusually quiet here," you put some anxiousness into your voice, "I hope I haven't inadvertently broken some custom or rule, by staying here too late?"

The guard looks at you through topaz-coloured lenses. "The librarium staff would know such things better than us guards. But no, I do not think so." He steps a little closer to you, taking care not to accidentally touch you with the powered end of his halberd "We've had reports of a civil disturbance in the Pendulum Gardens district," he says in low tones. "Hive Control says that Arbites from Platform-City Alpha are out in force." You nod him on. "I don't know what they are after, but it has disputed the flow of traffic. Control bitched at length about how long it would take to sort everything out."

"So you're saying that this...traffic disturbance has either delayed people or made them think twice about coming in today," you ask.

He nods.

A librarium adept, this one a rather attractive female specimen, steps out the same passageway. You quickly tag her as a late bloomer, currently enjoying her newfound attractiveness. She looks a little anxious and flustered. You will yourself to see her emotional bleed. The result is rather striking: The woman very recently participated in a romantic encounter of the third kind. There is the afterglow of desire and passion, mingling with quite a bit of guilt, and a dash of deception. Late or no, she's definitely a bloomer.

She notices you starting at her and neatly changes her course in midstep, making it out to look like she wasn't trying to scurry away.

You chance a sideways glance at the guard. His aura is almost completely supressed. His helmet isn't just there for physical protection, it contains a potent psi-inhibitor as well. Very prudent, but also very ostentatious: There are only two or three Mechanicus-dependant tech-guilds in the Bapas sub that can make such things. None of them come cheaply.

You make a mental note not to get into a fight with the gold-cloaks. You'd be at a significant disadvantage. A handful of them might pose a real threat, if they get close enough to swarm you.

"May I be of assistance?" the woman with the tousled nutmeg hair asks.

The guard's attention shifts away from you, taking in all the female glory of the librarian. You were almost certain before, now you are positively sure. He's the man responsible for the librarian's emotional fervour and bad hair day.

"Librarian Amaya. I was just explaining to the Goodman here why the reception area is so quiet. Checked with Hive Central; there has been a disturbance in the traffic-flow."

"How good of you Cerberus Makal," the woman replies, the tone of her voice a tad too husky for a professional of her station. "I will take it from here."

The guard does a smart salute with his halberd, a snappish about-face, and marches away.

"If you wish I could request aerial transport from the librarium's hopper pool; that should get you past any traffical difficulties," Amaya offers.

You put on a solemn face. "There is no need. I can make my way back to my accommodations on foot. It is not far; I secured lodgings close to the librarium for precisely such occasions. Even with the disturbance it should not take long."

When she looks like she might object you reach out with your mind to give her a little mental nudge. She's a strong-willed woman, but her recent escapade has left her mind in emotional disarray. It is no challenge for one such as you to slip in, uninvited and unnoticed. Her words of protests boil away, leaving only a warm smile and a polite curtsey.

You stay connected with her for a few extra seconds, quickly browsing through her thought-patterns, surface memory reservoirs, and behavioural routines. You come away feeling rather attracted to her. She is good-looking physically, but her personality really is quite stunning. Too bad you're on a mission; otherwise you might have a mind to get to know both parts of her a little better.

As an afterthought you leave a seed of attraction within her emotional centre. Grafting it to a woman in her agitated state is easy. Passion and excitement is already there for the taking, and her attraction to the guard is easily subverted into your service. The end result is rather pleasing for such a rushed job. Extremely hard to spot for another psyker, yet promising to give you a deep and subtle channel of influence.

Tonight she will dream of a handsome stranger. Give it a few days and she'll be daydreaming about you. Having an ally inside the librarium might be worth something later. And she does have chambers in a nearby hab-block, which may come in handy if you must relocate.

You leave her there on the reception floor feeling slightly bemused, not realizing in the slightest what you've just done to her mind.

You pass through the final access corridor, a great colonnaded piece overflowing with architectural and aesthetic beauty, and the final set of security doors glide shut behind you with only a soft thud.


	32. CHAPTER 24 - WATCHERS

You know you're being watched before you even step out onto the Plaza of Loremasters. You might not be the galaxy's most talented tarot reader, but you're rather sharp when it comes to more immediate precognition techniques.

You halt just inside the gilded adamantium portal arch, staying out of sight. But not out of mind; you reach out with your other senses, senses 'normal' people lack, overlaying your clairvoyance probe with a psychic map of the most likely immediate futures.

The vastness of the Plaza, with its many monumental structures, majestic statues, and bustling activity fades from your view, to be replaced by something infinitely more complex and sublime: A view not only of the locale and the people populating it in the now, but of how the place will look a few minutes into the future. Not just the one possible future, but all of them, most of them permutations of a few main branches that largely depended on your own actions.

The first team of watchers is revealed in an instant. Two men and a woman. All three are wearing psi-warding circlets. Not as potent as the Cerberus' helmet, but sufficient to keep you from probing their minds. So they know you're a telepath. For all the good that it will do them. It won't prevent you from reading their futures, nor will it bar your farsight, which is all you need really. Getting into their heads would be a nice bonus, but you can do fine without.

The team is watching you from the third floor of the nearby Temple of the Learned Emperor. They've taken up a concealed position on an exterior walkway used mostly by maintenance servitors. Clearly the spotter team.

Selecting a future to your liking, you count to thirteen before stepping out just as a matte-black macro-hauler with Adeptus Arbites markings slowly rumbles past. It is no doubt en route to the disturbance area to pick up a few hundred arrested rioters. You duck in between its mammoth wheels and break into a jog, staying low and well clear of the grasping rubber. The spotters never see you.

The second team is more elusive. Two men, posing as traffic-direction servitors. Now that's a new one. You're rarely surprised, but dressing up as servitors isn't something you see very often. Normal people wouldn't even consider such a course of action. The citizen-dregs have too many taboos associated with mankind's cyborg-servants. The first of the tailing teams, also serving as backup spotters. Pretty much standard procedure for any surveillance job.

You reach out with your telepathic powers, shifting through nearby minds, looking for an advantage. You find one, in the servitor overseer in charge of the plaza's maintenance. His job is a simple one; escort his charges to the plaza, then watch them as they spend all day keeping the place tidy and in working order, then escort them back to maintenance-storage.

You plant an idea in his mind and underline its importance with a jolt of panic. He suddenly becomes aware that he's missing two servitors now that shift's end is approaching. You let his panic drain away as soon as he spots his two wayward charges, that being the two traffic-control servitors with nothing to do. Any misgiving the man might have about claiming these two strange servitors as his own are easily dismissed with a small mental thrust.

You would have loved to stay to see the scene play out, but you must be going. You're on the God-Emperor's time here, and the Master of Mankind doesn't gladly suffer laziness. You stay in between the wheels until the hauler rumbles past a largish statue of a heroic-looking fellow. You put up the hood of your cloak and step close, joining the small group of local citizens paying their respects by lighting candles and making small offerings of their own blood.

You peer into the future again. Many new branches have sprouted. Several of them more to your liking, but there are still obstacles to overcome.

The statue is probably one of the city's patrons. Each of the floating cities of Bokiba-Bapas has at least one local hero that they honour the way others might honour Imperial saints. Not unlike the ancestor-worship of Haxtes' Protasia. You wonder briefly if the Missionaria Galaxia is - or was - at work here as well. Probably.

The third team you cannot see, neither with your normal senses, nor the psychic ones. But they are there all right; there is always third team. Looking past the immediate future, going a few minutes forward, you see that the majority of likely scenarios have the watchers picking you up. Only a third - psychically invisible - team can explain that.

That means they are screened. And an active psychic screen means they've got a psyker with them. You haven't felt him actively probing for you. Which means he's content with keeping his screen up until the spotters report seeing you before trying anything offensive. Well, they never will see you, so he'll never get his heads up.

You would have liked to try to find a way through the screen, a way to probe the other psyker's mind, but doing so would alert him to your presence. You can't afford to tip him off, not unless you want the rest of his merry little band to descend upon you.

Instead you start instilling your group of fellow worshippers with an urge to finish up and get moving. Not all together in a large group, that would just look conspicuous, but in multiple smaller groups, leaving in different directions, at slightly different times.

You blend in with one group of seven people heading away from the statue, going towards the market edge of the plaza. A marketplace where one can find anything from religious mementos and paraphernalia, to token offerings and scented candles, to digi-styluses and reference dataslates.

You've timed the final leg of your escape well. Just as you start to move, another figure leaves the Library of Knowing, drawing the attention of the spotter teams. You slip in among the stalls and merchants of the bazar. A quick peek into your immediate future confirms that the third team has not spotted you. Not only have you evaded your stalkers; the opposing teams didn't even realize you've slipped past them.

No reason for elated celebration. You may have evaded them, but the effect won't last. Eventually they'll learn you are not in the librarium and come looking for you again. Since you have to go back to the librarium - repeatedly - reacquiring you will be ridiculously easy. You can give them the slip again, of that you are sure, but sooner or later they will get lucky and catch you.

You'll need to plan for that eventuality. Might even require a pre-emptive strike to resolve the situation. But not today, and not tomorrow. Today is for rest. Tomorrow is for the book. But after that you'll have to waste precious time figuring out who they are, what they want, and what their capabilities are. And if necessary you'll have to remove them from your future. From all your possible futures. Permanently, if need be.

You consider stopping at a decent eating establishment on your way back to the Administratum block-house. Instead you end up succumbing to ravenous hunger; you grab some food, and a quad of Zhangee from a street side food court. The greasy lumps of non-descript vat-meat are absolutely delicious. On second thought even dry, mouldy bread would be delicious right now. The perfectly chilled beer is even better. You finish one self-cooling decomposable bio-polymer bottle with the meat. Another one for the road. You decide the last two bottles would taste even better with some desert, so you purchase a couple of sweet-pies from a grossly overweight vendor. Being that fat should be a heresy; wanton waste of the God-Emperor's sustenance. You chuckle at your own internal joke.

The walk is longer than you remembered. Actually that isn't true. You remember exactly how long the walk is, down to the exact number of steps and the length of each stride. But subjectively it feels longer when you're tired, impatient, and hungry.

Correction: Was hungry. Now you're rather full. By the time the Administratum blockhouse looms above your head you've finished another beer and are licking pastry and sticky jam of your fingers.

You make a few adjustments to your attire, going from penitent worshiper to non-descript scribe in a few steps. You go in by a side entrance normally used only by Adepts from the Office of Standards and Interoperability. The Magistratum trooper standing guard outside gives you a quizzical look. Your last bottle of Zhangee is in your hand and the man clearly isn't used to such frivolous behaviour from his clientele.

You're in no mood for this. A mental jab leaves the man stunned and dumbfounded. He'll remember little of the event afterwards, just that he saw another Adept coming in and that he had a dizzy spell. He'll avoid reporting it, because he wants to avoid drawing attention to himself. Being noticed is never good for a lowly servant of the Adeptus Terra.

A swipe of the nondescript ring worn on the index finger of your left hand opens the locking mechanism for you. There will be no trace in the access log of your entry. The best omni-passkeys the Adeptus Mechanicus can make - one of the often overlooked perks of working for the Holy Ordos.

You settle down on your narrow cot in the windowless cubicle you've arranged for to be assigned to yourself. You take a couple of swigs of beer. Drinking makes you think of the Haxtes persona. Four beers in no time. He would have been proud of you. You sigh and put down the last bottle, without finishing it.

You knew they would send someone after you eventually. Of course they would. Your master has enemies. Inquisitors who either despise his methods or hate his guts for other reasons. Moreover he has rivals. Rivals that would love to get their hands on anything the master is looking for.

You just thought you had more time. There was no indication that anyone was hot on your heels, but here they are. How did they acquire your scent? Either they are better than you've given them credit for - or you're not as clever as you think. Well, either which way there will be a reckoning.

You let your body slip down on the cot, close your eyes and will yourself to sleep.


	33. INTERLUDE - THE MAIDEN AND THE CAPTAIN

The Pro Patria-class sprint freighter Virginis Golgenna - the Maiden of Golgenna in Low Gothic - rested at high anchor above the war-torn world of Protasia. The venerable voidship's Master and Commander, the Honourable Rogue Trader Corben of the House of Orvar, sat alone in the great observation spire that soared over the rest of the Maiden's superstructure. A retractable obelisk of adamantium, two hundred meters tall, crowned by an impenetrable sphere of crystal whose origin the Adeptus Mechanicus could not ascertain. The spire was not an original feature of the Pro Patria class, but an addition made by the founder of House Orvar, Lord Orvar of Merov, in preparation for his second great expedition into the Koronus Expanse.

If there was a place on board where Corben felt at home, it was here. It was the only place when he could find both solitude and escape the oppressive claustrophobia the rest of the ship invoked in him. No one was allowed up here while he was present, not even servitors. And with the viewing ports open, he could pretend he was soaring through the void alone, unburdened by the millions of tonnes of metal that make up the two-kilometre leviathan beneath his feet.

The Rogue Trader touched some of the control studs worked into the armrest of the control throne. The majestic murals of ancient Terra that soared above him faded, to be replaced by a crystal-clear image of the cold void outside. He played with another set of control worked into the other armrest; mighty thruster banks began to fire sequentially, slowly turning the Maiden of Golgenna so that her armoured prow pointed directly down towards the planet his ship was orbiting. At a distance of more than forty thousand kilometres the great bulk of the planet was reduced to a wide blue-white orb. Protasia. Or maybe he should call it Akakios, like it said on the old star chart he had retrieved from the astrographicum.

Captain Corben rose from his throne to stand beside a majestic desk of worked hardwoods procured from a dozen different death worlds. He looked down at the old chart again, smiling. He might not belong on a voidship, but was quite knowledgeable about all aspects of astrography and commerce. His father, the later Rogue Trader Simenon, had seen to it that his education was second to none. Corben knew he could have done a great job running the family business. If only the old man hadn't insisted upon him taking personal command of the Maiden. If only he could have appointed a proxy to run the vessel in his stead. Many Rogue Trader dynasties did this. He could have stayed on Quaddis and pulled the strings. Avoided all this void and warp travel. But no, the late Captain Simenon had made a provision in his will - his son Corben must command the Maiden, or forfeit his inheritance.

Tick, tick, tick.

He heard it more clearly this time. It was the same sound he thought he'd heard earlier. It was very faint, but it was undeniably there. It reminded him slightly of the sound Spectorian lobsters made when thrown into the boiling pan; the scratching of chitin on metal, muted by the roiling water and a sealed pressure lid. He tried listening more intently, but the noise was gone. Strange. The observation sphere was kept in pristine shape, blessedly free of any vermin or the general decay that threatened to overtake the below-decks.

Corben shook his head and returned his attention to the beautiful, hand-drawn chart. A specialised servitor pattern had made it, guided like an oversized auto-quill by one of the most renowned chart-savants Archaos had ever produced. Astrography. That was one field of lore he took particular interest in. As a child his father had filled his head with stories of distant worlds and exotic places. How he had longed to see those sights; to wander upon alien worlds, with strange suns burning down from the skies above.

When he grew old enough to travel, his father had taken him along on his journeys across the Calixis sector and beyond. It didn't take Corben long to realize he really, really didn't like to travel. What a disappointment it had been. It was the actual journey that pained him; the cold trek through the void, and worst of all, the nightmare journeys through the Immaterium. He had tired, he really had, but there was nothing he could do. He simply wasn't cut out to be a voidfarer.

He'd tried explaining this to his father, but the old man wouldn't listen. He was hell-bent on making Corben a copy of himself. No amount of reasoning, sulking, or screaming could change that. Mercifully, his father had eventually given up and left Corben at home. Marooned him in the family palace on Quaddis, attended by the scores of servants and hordes of servitors that ran the place.

The great Captain Simenon probably though his son didn't like to go places, but that wasn't strictly true. Corben still dreamed of the far-away places he had wanted to visit all his life. He just hated the going there.

To compensate for his inability to travel Corben had begun collecting all the lore he could find about the Calixis sector and all the regions that bordered it: The Margin Storms, the Maw, the Koronus Expanse, the Fydae Great Cloud (not his favourite piece of real estate), and all the other border regions. He had even looked into the neighbouring sectors; Scarus, Ixaniad - and eventually also Finial.

His father's estate had been a good starting point. Generations of Rogue Traders had amassed quite the throve of ancient star charts and planetary ledgers. When that was no longer enough, he had asked his father to bring home more. The old man had happily obliged. In fact, he spent a small fortune on it. He probably hoped it would lead Corben to grow a pair of balls and go out into the void again.

It didn't. It had, however, given Corben an unusual degree of insight into the worlds and system that made up the sector his dynasty - if a father and his only son deserved such a lofty label - called home. The Protasian system he knew of, without ever having come here. Actually few Rogue Traders did, for the Protasians kept their own council and their Merchant Marine was large and long-ranging, thanks to the privileged Charters they carried.

Akakios, however, was unknown to him. And the unknown always piqued his interest. It had taken him a while, but eventually he had pieced things together. Akakios was the old name for Protasia, predating Unity. The name that had fallen out of use shortly after the Angevin Crusade, after Protasia willingly had joined the Imperium.

That wasn't the real mystery, however. The real mystery was why the Imperials had chosen a non-Imperial name for the world. Why had they named Protasia the First Colony in the tongue of the ancient Akakians? It had taken even longer, but eventually he figured out that too. Protasia was the Malfian name for Protasia, had been since time immemorial. Protasia wasn't just the First Colony; it was the First Colony of Malfi. It also neatly explained why Malfi and Protasia shared the same linguistic roots - they had been one and the same at a distant point in the past.

This trip to the Protasian system had proven moderately successful. On the way here he had looted a Protasian hulk they had found adrift in the outer system. The salvage had been pretty good, and he'd taken on a long dozen of able hands his boarding crews had found stranded inside the dead spaceship. Given their plight - and the heretical nature of their rebellion - they had been overeager to swear allegiance to the Maiden and its master.

The Imperial Navy had tried to chase him away when he arrived in orbit, but they had no authority over a man that carried a Warrant of Trade. They had insisted on boarding him to verify his Warrant. Like always the Navy officers were all hot airs and condescending attitudes. The Flag Lieutenant they had sent over with the boarding party had been a particularly despicable specimen. He had pranced around like he owned the place, and offered Corben no more respect than he would a simple Chartist captain.

It was not without a growing sense of glee Corben had paraded him through the gilded memorium halls of the Maiden, discreetly watching the junior officer deflate as cruel reality crushed down upon him: This really was a Rogue Trader's vessel, filled with the pillage and trade goods of a hundred worlds, and he was nothing more than a bug trespassing on holy ground.

The Lieutenant had wanted to scurry away into a dark corner to hide, but Corben was having none of that. He had marched the poor fellow to the Commander's suite and allowed him to gaze upon the Warrant of Trade - the man had looked absolutely stricken when he saw the name of the sole signatory: Sebastian Thor, the holiest man in a millennial empire of holy men. That signature was worth more than the signatures of all the High Lords combined. Only the signature of the God-Emperor could outdo it - and Corben didn't think he had actually signed any Warrants.

After the Imperium had been dealt with, Corben had descended down to the surface to deal with whoever had the wealth to purchase what his cavernous holds held. He found that the Imperium held firmly on to the cities that hadn't been completely destroyed. He also found that there were still quite a few insurgents chipping away at the Imperial occupation forces.

Even as he sold his wares to the new Imperial powers-that-be, he had men out to establish connections with the locals. Some of them had taken to calling themselves Akakians in an effort to distance themselves from the Imperial tyrants. Corben had found them to be courageous and tenacious, but he really didn't think they could outlast the Imperium of Mankind. He didn't think they believed it either. But they would nevertheless continue to fight, probably to the last man.

There was potentially good money to be made here. He would return, laden with stuff the newly appointed leaders of Protasia would require if they were going to restore the planet to working order. Which they must, lest they fail to meet the Imperial Tithe that would one day be levied against them. He would also fill some of the holds with weapons and other war-gear. Equipment the insurgents would pay well for.

Protasia had been a rich world for millennia; both the Imperials and the Akakians would hold a piece of that wealth, and Corben was more than willing to take it off their hands.

Tick, tick, tick.

That lobster sound again. What could be the source? He was completely alone up here, wasn't he? His contemplative mood soured, he strode purposefully towards the gilded elevator waiting for him. The Seneschal would answer for this interruption, and by the Widower those answers had better be good!


	34. CHAPTER 25 - THE EMPEROR'S TAROT

You wake early, as you have done since your days at the Scholastia Psykana collegium. You feel rested, if a little stiff and weary after all those hours standing nearly motionless in front of the tome. Some limbering exercises and martial arts katas leave you warm and supple.

All those hours of sweat and pain felt so wasted then and there, but in hindsight you're rather glad you received a good physical education to complement your mental and psychic abilities.

After seeing to your personal hygiene needs, you sit down and eat a quick, improvised breakfast in your cubicle. You'll grab a larger meal on the way to the librarium. No need to repeat yesterday's hungry spell. An empty stomach is not optimal when you know you'll be psychically and mentally exerting yourself for most of the day.

Between mouthfuls of some sort of artificial cereal, eaten right out of the box, you pull out your Tarot deck. The well-worn leather covered adamantium case is a familiar weight in your hand. It's been with you for many years, ever since your Inquisitor granted it to you shortly after entering his service. The case itself is nigh indestructible, and the lock responds only to your unique psychic imprint.

Inside lies seventy-eight psychoactive liquid-crystal wafers worked into the shape of tarot cards. The same material that Melbinious' tome is constructed from.

The cards of the Emperor's Tarot are unlike any other, for they are linked to the indomitable will of the God-Emperor of Mankind. With a full deck at his disposal, a skilled reader can foretell the future, see into the distant past, and reveal secrets great and small.

Truth be told you've never been a terribly proficient reader. Mastery of the Tarot requires endless practice and infinite patience. You've never had the time - or the patience. Indeed, it is often said that the Tarot is an old man's tool. Perhaps you will become more skilled with crabbed age. Probably not. Best leave fortune telling to the wizened Astropaths that have outlived their usefulness as transmitters, but retained enough sensitivity to still read the Tarot. You'll settle for being just a casual reader. Skilled enough to make sense of your casual readings of the immediate future. That will be sufficient, at least until you make Inquisitor rank. Peerage - and the longevity promised by the tome - could provide the impetus to devote your resources towards mastering the tarot.

You call upon the power you normally keep locked away in the deep crevasses of your mind. The power that only a psyker knows. Born of the Warp, but harnessed by the evolved mind into a tool, for the betterment of Mankind. It is the ability to harness this power that sets you apart for the vast bulk of the human race. You and your kind are the future. Humanity will continue to evolve into a fully psychic race. It is the only route that leads to survival, to ultimate victory. You agree with your master one hundred per cent in that regard.

The difference between psykers and the rest of Mankind is not simply one of genes. Yes, there are genetic differences, but there are other deeper, more fundamental differences as well. Differences even the immoral and godless scientists of the Dark Age of Technology could not fully understand. Not so strange perhaps, as things that are intimately connected to the Warp can rarely be quantified or catalogued.

You will there to be flame and there is. It burns bright and warm, but consumes neither fuel, nor air. The flame is the psychic manifestation of your will, and it is your will alone that sustains it. You let the flame engulf the Tarot case. The lid swings open.

You quickly dismiss the fire and slide the cards out of the case and into your waiting hand. They are cool to the touch. And heavy. They are always heavier in the hand than in the case. That's how it is for you anyway. Psykers rarely experience handling the Tarot in exactly the same way. Just like they do not experience the use of their powers in the same way.

You chuckle a little. That uniqueness was ever a challenge for the collegium teachers. They could beat and threaten all they wanted, but at the end of the day they had to adjust their lessons to accommodate each individual psyker. No two were ever the same, but they all needed to be taught the same basics. Otherwise they wouldn't make the grade and the collegium would fail to meet its quota. And failing to meet your quota is very bad for any member of the Adeptus Terra. It was quite the conundrum for the old masters. They would greatly have preferred to just force everyone to fit into the same mould, but thousands of years of experience had proven it didn't work that way.

You shuffle the deck while chewing down two additional mouthfuls. The cereal is bone dry. You grab a carton of some protein-fortified beverage to wash it down. The drink is too sweet, and spiced with too much cheap vanillin substitute, but it does the job of easing your parched throat.

Eating helps you defocus. In your experience is doesn't help to be all serene and focused. What works best for you is not focusing at all. Which is easier if you engage is some form of routine, meaningless activity. Like eating cereal, right out of the box.

You stop shuffling and bring forth the query: What manner of unexpected or hidden events will this day hold for you?

Keeping the query clear in your mind, you draw seven cards, one at a time, laying them face down in a familiar pattern. Starting from the left and going right you make the sort of wide inverted 'V' that gives the spread its name: The Throne of Terra. The card backs stare up at you, seven stylized 'I's, the holy symbol of the mighty Inquisition, arranged like a little mountain.

According to Imperial folklore the presence of the God-Emperor is supposed to be hovering over the Throne, just as the real Him presides over the Golden Throne. Which is why this spread is supposed to be extra accurate. You don't buy into that explanation. Such tales are for the unilluminated. You know that as long as the spread is consistent and familiar to the reader, it will do the trick. The exact number of cards and the pattern they are laid out in don't matter all that much.

For your own part the Throne is just the spread you're the most familiar with. Barring perhaps the Imperator, but that one hardly tells you anything, since it's made up of only three cards. No, you greatly prefer the Throne of Terra. You've been using the Throne since you first had a deck thrust into your hands during Psykana training. Consistent and familiar, the Throne spread does the trick for you.

The query is burning beautiful and bright inside those parts of your mind that are the most imaginative and psychically sensitive. You lean forward a fraction and place the centre three fingers of your right hand upon the back of the leftmost card. The card goes from cold to searing hot in an instant. Pain lances up through the nerves of your arm and bores into your waiting mind. Never is pain so sweet as when interpreting the will of the God-Emperor of Mankind.

The fiery pain mingles with your own inner flames. Knowing the connection to be stable and strong, you let down your customary wards and allow the power of the Warp to flow into you. This is what makes the Emperor's Tarot so unique. As long as you keep your heart filled with unconditional love for the God-Emperor, the cards of the deck will ward you from Warp-corruption and other unpleasantness. Divinations such as this would be hazardous at best without the protection offered by the Tarot.

The first card is indicative of the past. It can potentially reveal something which has transpired that is relevant to the query. You turn over the card. The Inquisitor, the Ace of Adeptio, stares up at you. You've gotten the same card as yesterday in the first position. Unusual, but hardly a unique occurrence. Besides, yesterday's query was the same one as today, and the situation hasn't changed much.

You peer intently at the card. The image is slightly different from what it was last time. The Inquisitor is more of an adept today, less of a warrior, but it could well be the same person, judging by his height and build. It is hard to be sure, because he's wearing a long cloak with the hood pulled up. The cloak is an almost exact match of the one Haxtes was wearing during yesterday's session. But the man wearing it cannot be Haxtes, for he is much too tall and heavyset.

You're pretty sure that the Inquisitor is none other than Melbinious, the original master of the tome. Given his penchant for secrecy and your lack of concrete information about him, the Tarot and your mind is filling out the blanks. His face hasn't been revealed to you yet, but you now have his measure in terms of size.

Barring the actual image, the Ace of Adeptio is, like all aces, a potent card that can have multiple interpretations, even within one reading. With all that is going on, with all that has transpired leading up to this point, there is really no telling what its exact significance is. Maybe a later reading will reveal more.

You move to the second card. Another jolt of burning pain, mingling with the inferno growing inside your mind. The second card represents the nature of the problem, the essence of the matter, the current state of events. You turn it over. The Pilgrim stares up at you. The Pilgrim is the only unnumbered Major Arcanum, something of the odd man out. Its appearance is always momentous, for it represents new beginnings and possibilities. It is also the same card that you drew for second position yesterday. The only difference is that today the Pilgrim is you, appearing as you did in your formal robes upon your promotion to Interrogator rank.

You take it to mean that yesterday you started your journey into the tome's secrets with a few baby steps. But today you will come into your own and plunge ever deeper into its mysteries. You're fully committed now. That's why you can clearly see yourself in the place of the Pilgrim. If you draw the same card tomorrow, you will know for absolute certain.

The third card. By now the pain is just the ache after a long bout of physical exertion. It hurts, but in a good way, promising to leave you invigorated and calm afterwards. The third position is an important one. It reveals that which is hidden. The things, influences, or events the querent - that being you - cannot see or has overlooked. You turn over the card. The Stranger, the Ace of Excuteria. For the third time you've pulled the same card as the day before.

The Stranger within the image is wearing the same robe as the Inquisitor, but his back is turned to you and his surroundings fail to give any clues as to his identity. For a moment you think he is Haxtes, but the next he's someone else entirely. You fine-tune your psychic senses to try and pick up some detail you've missed, but the harder you try the less you learn.

As if sensing your discomfort the Stranger raises his right hand. He's wearing body armour in Haxtes' style, black gloves included, that much you can see. In his hand is a bottle of cheap amasec, of a kind you imagine Haxtes would not touch, even if his life depended on it.

The card that is supposed to reveal secrets simply tells you that an unseen force is at work. No shit! This gives you nothing to work with. Completely useless.

The fourth position. The apex of the Throne. It tells of obstacles or challenges that will present themselves. You're not particularly surprised when it comes out as the Assassin, the Eight of Adeptio. The image is clearly of Haxtes, armed with pistol and knife. Haxtes as a kid, a little older than you've seen him thus far. Twelve years old maybe? You are certain that it means you'll have to wrestle some more with the Gatekeeper today. Not much of a surprise really.

The fifth card. Indicative of other factors that might come into play. Not secret influences like the third position, but something else. Could be the presence and actions of the mystery team, some trait of your own, or something else entirely. The fifth position you find easy to interpret - if you can discern what it relates to. The Titan. So is this how is going to be? The exact same reading as yesterday? Thus far five out of five are a match.

Today's imagery is completely different though. Gone is yesterday's Eternity Gate. In its place a huge angelic statue of red Protasian stone lies shattered in the Plaza of Loremasters, the open space just outside the Second Librarium. You ponder upon the fallen giant for a moment and conclude the card is reversed. Unlike yesterday it doesn't represent strength, but weakness. But whose weakness?

Curiously you spot nine tiny figures standing or sitting on top of the statue. Very peculiar; only rarely will a tarot card depict more than one person, let alone a while group. Focusing on them you can make out their features in some detail. A wide grin keeps onto your face. Now you have the measure of the mystery team. You offer a brief prayer of thanks to Him on Earth before moving your hand one more position to the right.

The sixth card represents advice, the best course of action to follow. You flip it over, revealing the Martyr, another Major Arcanum. And the same card as yesterday. The Martyr is you. There can be no doubt. You as you are dressed today. You can clearly see your own face, slight upturned as if looking intently as some figure just beyond the edge of the card. Your mien is one of bliss and absolute adoration.

Cold grips your heart, threatening to choke your inner fire. You know it is your own, near imminent, future death you've touched upon. And by the look of it you will go willingly, filled with rapturous bliss. An involuntary shiver rushes through your body, upsetting your equilibrium and threatening to sever your connection to the Tarot.

You've always know that you would die in the service. Death has breathed you down the neck more than once out in the field. You've never let that stop you. Your duty, the service to the God-Emperor and Mankind is far more important to you than your life. But you've never had that Tarot tell you that today is the day you die.

Or could there be another sacrifice you will be called upon to make? For a brief instant you feel a sense of hope, but alas, that's not it. The Martyr foretells your death, today. You are absolutely certain. Pretending otherwise will not help you alter your foretold fate.

You flip over the last card before the session is prematurely ended. Gone is the pure maiden of yesterday's reading. It is not the Unclean One reversed, but the Reaper, upright. Again it is your own face staring up at you. The dead are heaped around your feet. You recognize some of them as being members of the mystery team. The others are too badly mangled and burned to be certain. Burned by your psychic fire mayhap?

Realization dawns. You know what to do. Your watchers must die before the end of the day. It is either that or you will be the martyr, the one claimed by the reaper. A pity that such extreme measures must be taken, but you've been given a glimpse of the future and shown the Emperor's will in the matter. And who are you to argue with the will of your God?

Thirty minutes later you're long gone. Carefully applied psychic fire has cleared away any physical indication of your stay. You've purged any traces of your comings and goings from the memory stacks, and made sure none of the guards or adepts remember you. You won't be coming back.


	35. CHAPTER 26 - TRIGGER FINGER

The walk to the Plaza of the Loremasters is no different from the day before. In this part of the city there are wide boulevards and ample open spaces, all lined with towering buildings. Only the most opulent structures have less than twenty stories - space is a premium atop a flying city. Other than being marginally less crowded and grimy than most hives, there is no real difference between this place and countless other crowded and compact Imperial settlements throughout the galaxy. Except this one soars five kilometres above the bleak and irradiated wasteland that is Bokiba-Bapas' planetary surface.

Getting into the Second Library of Knowing again proves easier than getting out. The Arbites are out in force. If you had been a criminal or heretic the Imperial lawmen could have been a threat to you. But as a loyal Inquisition agent you are outside their jurisdiction. Should the mystery team try to interfere with you, they will first have to go through the Arbitrators.

Speaking of the mystery team. You find them pretty much right where you left them. The servitor team has switched to a different guise. Now they are posing as guild runners, idling in the shadow of the very statue your stopped by yesterday. You make sure they see you going in, but not in a way that might indicate you know that you're being watched. Let them wonder how you got out yesterday. Give nothing away for free. You'll be seeing them again soon enough.

You pass Librarian Amaya on the third level. She smiles at you. A slight flush creeps into her cheeks when you smile back. She looks a bit surprised at her own reaction. The emotional worm is doing its job.

It's a different reading chamber today. The layout is the same, but the reddish alabaster artwork is different. As your eyes wander from one edge of the room to the other you see soaring cityscapes, rural villages, and majestic churches, all going to ruin.

One particular piece catches your eye, a plaza filled with broken angles arranged in three circles. It reminds you of the Red Square in Thira. Another reminder of how the human mind works to fill in gaps and erase uncertainties.

You put the artwork out of your mind and get down to business. Your walk - and a hearty second breakfast - gave you time to plan your mental architecture for today's session.

It will be mostly the same as yesterday, but you'll be forced to add an additional subdivision to your observing mind. It will work in concert with the buffer to pick up unexpected attacks and other unpleasantness.

This will challenge your abilities and drain you physically, but you'll compensate by dividing today's session in two with a lengthy break in the middle.

Which fortunately coincides with your need to take care of some real-world matters while in the Librarium.

You touch the tome and the connection is there, stronger and clearer than ever before.

"You seem preoccupied Marcus. Is something amiss?" Haxtes asks.

You consider a bit before answering. "Not exactly amiss, but something happened yesterday." You add a little sigh for emphasis. "My pursuers seem to have caught up with me a little sooner than anticipated. That's all."

"Pursuers? Now why would a member of the Holy Ordos have pursuers?" Haxtes asks, feigning ignorance.

"My master has enemies that would like to hurt him. And rivals that seek to outdo him. There is no more to it than that," you reply.

"And these particular pursuers," Haxtes continues, "are they enemies or rivals?"

"That I do not know. Not that it matters. Enemies or rivals - if they get in my way I will remove them from the equation," you answer. No need to elaborate.

Haxtes grins. "I'll call that preaching to the choir, Marcus." He pours himself his first drink of the day. He fills your glass without asking. "Vintage amasec from Scarus Sector today. Nothing outlandish or exotic, just some seriously good shit."

You pick up your own glass and lean back. "Shall we proceed?" you say, indicating that you'd like to resume the story.

Haxtes cradles his glass. "Just pick your desired immersion level and I'll start my narration."

You opt for the intermediate immersion level.

I was heading down the dusty street. The sun was halfway between zenith and the horizon, but in between the buildings and ruins it was hot as a baker's oven. There were few people out, but I could feel many more pairs of eyes staring at me from behind barred doors and closed windows. It made me slightly uncomfortable. This was not my way. My way was the unseen way, the way of stealth. But I knew it had to be done, honour and duty demanded it. I set my teeth and kept walking.

Above me Jons' CAS drones hovered, unseen and unheard. In my crotch the locator-coin hummed out its invisible techno-signals. And somewhere behind me four IGs were coming, armed and ready for Xenos Majoris. They were taking an awful risk helping me get my vengeance. It was only fair that I share in the danger.

The gun was in my right hand, a heavy weight straining against my preteen muscles. I loved the feel of it. I kept the pistol close to my body. I made no attempt to hide it; the gleaming gunmetal was plain to see for anyone with a mind to look. That was sort of the point; for my fellow indigs to see the crazy whoreson coming into town, waving his gun around, looking for trouble.

Nix roamed to the right, going across what had once been a cosy local green. Now it was a charnel pit, the ground churned to pieces by metal tracks, and the trees had burned when the ammunition supplies aboard a Leman Russ tank had exploded and set everything in the vicinity ablaze. A few bits and pieces of charred bone protruded from the dried mud. Imperial Guardsmen or Protasian troopers? I could not tell.

The tank wreck was still there. Nix took the opportunity to piss on the scorched and rusted metal before moving on. Good dawg.

The south-eastern corner of the green was overlooked by a small mansion of sorts; a largish house that seemed to belong out in the hill country, but had somehow been misplaced in the middle of the city.

Without my lock I had no way of knowing who had lived there. But no matter, whoever had owned the place was long gone by the looks of it. The building had been shelled repeatedly and riddled with lasfire.

A low masonry wall with a spiked wrought-iron fence made the compound look positively upper-class. Said Leman Russ - or maybe another just like it - had run through the wall on the north side and exited where the front gate used to sit, facing the green.

I instantly knew the place for what it was. This was where they had taken my mother and manhandled her. Nix had led me true.

Below the walled compound there would be a reinforced rockrete shelter, complete with hidden escape tunnels, built to specification by those who had lived here before. A ruin atop a hidden bunker. Concealment and hard cover both. A good location to set up a hidden base.

Standing casually in the vicinity of the ruined gate were two men. They looked like regular civilians, save they seemed a bit better fed and carried PDF-issue autoguns. One had a scavenged IG combat vest, but the other made do with a civilian belt and some ammo pouches. They seemed bored, talking in low tones and sharing a lho-stick between them.

Insurgents. Terrorists. Militia. Freedom fighters. Guerrillas. Any of those terms might be applied to these men. They were also simple rapists and murderers. Neither had played a very active role in my mother's demise, but they had both been present at her 'trial', and when the 'sentence' had been carried out. Which made them guilty by association, at the very least. In my mind there could be only one verdict: Death.

The distance must have been around sixty paces when I brought the gun up.

My shooting experience was extremely limited: Father owned two shotguns and an antique stub rifle - he took them with him when he went to war. In his younger days he'd hunted fowl and some game, but when I grew up, the guns sat idle in the gun locker. He had never taught me how to handle weapons.

So my gun lore was limited to the occasional bout at fairs and such. In fact I had never actually fired the autopistol, although with Jons' tuition I was confident I could handle it with basic proficiency. Needless to say I had never fired a weapon at another person.

Sixty paces with an autopistol is a challenge even for a competitive shooter using a target pistol. For me it was easy. I brought the gun up with both hands. The two men loomed like giants in my sights. I could not possibly miss.

I pulled the trigger without hesitation: I have heard it said that shooting at another person is hard, especially the first time. I felt no such thing. Not that first time, nor at any later time. I guess I had the heart of a sniper after all.

A burst of small-calibre, high-velocity bullets sped out from my gun, crossed sixty paces of air in a fraction of a second, and hit the older of the two men, the one with the makeshift utility belt. He must have been wearing a flak vest underneath his dirty militia jacket, because I didn't see any blood where the rounds struck him in the chest. The vest didn't provide protection against the two rounds that made minced meat of his left arm, however. Nor did it protect his neck from the bullet that ripped open his jugular vein. He went down, gurgling and coughing, as his life flowed red onto the dusty ground.

The younger man had quick reflexes, I'll give him that. He threw himself back and to the right, into cover behind the ruined wall. Quick reflexes, but not preternatural ones. I just kept squeezing the trigger and adjusting my aim. There was simply no way for him to dodge out of the way of so many bullets. He disappeared behind the wall all right, but I knew I'd hit him multiple times. And he wasn't wearing any vest, the red ruin that had been his chest testified to that.

Two men were dead by my hand. My autopistol had run dry. I hadn't brought any spare clips. The sudden silence hung heavy over me. I knew it wouldn't last. It was like the calm before the storm. Soon all hell would break loose, and I would be standing there with an empty gun in my hand.

"So, what did you do," you ask.

Haxtes raises his eyebrows. "What any sane man would do. I dropped the gun, turned on my heel, and ran like Horus was after me."

"Both subtle and heroic," you say with dry humour.

"Every time," Haxtes agrees.


	36. CHAPTER 27 - GUNMETAL

My foray into rebel territory had gone better than expected. I had hit pay dirt on my first try. Now it was up to Jons and his brothers from another mother. All I had to do was lead the enemy to them. And to do that I just had to make sure the Kiones warriors followed me. Easy peasy for a quick and clever fellow like me.

I ran a hundred meters, right across the ruined green, stopping briefly in the shadow of the Leman Russ wreck to catch my breath and chance a glance back towards the mansion. I had been spotted all right. Sixteen or seventeen men were hauling ass towards my position. Unlike me they were armed, packing autoguns, and carrying more than enough ammo to kill me a hundred times over.

So far, so good. But then my brilliant plan quickly went to the Warp. An Imperial Springer all-terrain buggy burst out through the north gap in the wall and started to loop around to flank my cover. It was packed with a handful more men, and the autocannon mounted on the crash-bar seemed fully armed and operational. By Horus' teats! This was spinning out of control. I got back on my feet and ran like a renegade for the Eye of Terror.

I had made it a few hundred more meters, all the way across the green and a bit down the street, before the first autocannon shells zipped past. If the gunner had been a real gunner I would have died right there. But he didn't know what he was doing, so instead of using the proximity air-burst setting, he just kept hammering shots downrange like the autocannon was an overgrown pea-shooter. What a fucking incompetent moron. An ogryn Guardsman would have done better.

I dashed for a nearby corner and made it into a narrow side street. That bought me a precious few seconds of life. I kept running until my breath came in ragged gulps and I could feel the taste of iron in my mouth. Where the hell were Jons and his brothers?

The buggy came around the corner the same instant I got out of the side street and onto a major residential thoroughfare. That brought me a few more seconds of life. I had to find cover or I'd be a dead kid very soon. I could run no longer, I could barely keep myself from collapsing, so I threw myself behind a red stone staircase and prayed to whoever might be listening for the enemy to just drive past.

I don't think I would have been so lucky, but my hiding place wasn't put to the test. One moment the buggy was roaring after me. Next there was a whooshing sound, followed by an explosion as painfully loud as it was unexpected.

The burning wreck of the buggy came tumbling down the street, shedding an equal measure of burning pieces of machinery and broken people.

I saw Mazzo standing there, less than a hundred meters down the street, half exposed and with a long tube over his shoulder. In less time than it took me to blink - that's how it felt anyway - he had discarded the spent missile launcher and was back into cover, lasgun in hand, scanning the street.

A thought occurred to me: If I was going to keep playing with guns I had better get these soldiers to show me how to do it properly. Because right then and there I realized I was so totally out of my league it wasn't even funny.

Sarge dropped into a crouch next to me, looking dead serious as he put a finger to his lips in the age-old signal for 'shut up stupid kid or I'll kill you myself, now get out of my fucking way'. He readied his assault weapon and then signalled back towards Mazzo.

Mazzo jumped up and moved forward a dozen meters to take up a new position. Rovo appeared from nowhere and dashed - as fast as his gun rig would allow - down the road, taking up position about twenty meters down the street from us.

No sooner was he in position before Mazzo moved forward again, finding cover behind a staircase on the opposite side of the street. Jons I did not see, but I knew he would be nearby, probably up high and watching through the Eye.

Next thing I knew insurgents on foot were piling into the street. The men were somewhat agitated by the fact that someone - obviously not little me - had blown up their precious buggy and killed their comrades. They were milling about, shouting and pointing, and generally behaving aggressively but rather unprofessionally.

"These insurgents," you interject, "you make them sound like amateurs, but they've must all have been veterans by now after more than a year of fighting."

Haxtes seems annoyed at yet another interruption. "These 'insurgents' were not army regulars with a year of active combat experience. The real soldiers were all gone, dead, or fled somewhere else. I thought we had covered this already. The Imperial Guard is very thorough." He takes a sip. "Damn this is good amasec."

"Indeed," you reply, taking a sip of your own. "Sorry about the interruption, but war is not my area of expertise."

"I've noticed," Haxtes says drily. "These insurgents were not soldiers. I don't think there were many with militia training either. Just some old men, a few women, and a lot of boys, many of them even younger than my brother Jax. Just kids with guns really. Like myself."

You nod. "Given time and good leadership they might become a force to be reckoned with. Maybe that was the reason for the graphic executions?"

Haxtes agrees. "Probably. This new leader of theirs was asserting his hold over the rank and file, whipping the locals into line. Let's call him a low-ranking clergyman with delusions of grandeur and a sadistic streak?"

"That would fit pretty well," you conclude.

I couldn't see very well from where I was crouched behind Sarge. Part of me wanted to pop my head up and look around, but my proximity to Sarge killed that urge. I was effectively pinned between his bulk and the exterior wall of the building. I think it was an intentional move on his part. I felt oddly touched that he'd use his own body as a shield for little me. I would not have done the same for him - or anyone else.

The IGs waited until most of the insurgents had come into the relatively open space that was the main road, but not as long as to give them time to reorganize and take up good positions.

Jons opened the show with a sniper shot to the head of one of the insurgents. If the rebel squad came with a leader, he had just died. As if on cue the other three guardsmen opened up.

Sarge leaned over the edge of the stone stairs and let rip with his assault weapon at two insurgents that were heading our way. They both died quickly, torn to shreds by an angry swarm of anti-personnel and high-explosive flechettes. I can honestly say that I've had a healthy dose of respect for automatic shotguns after that experience.

After downing those two he switched to suppressive fire. The open road wasn't ideal terrain for a shotgun, but flechette ammo gives you a lot better accuracy and range than your average buckshot.

A rifle grenade came sailing through the air at about the same time. It hit the bitumen surface of the road, smack in the middle of the densest group of insurgents, bounced up about a metre and then exploded in a cloud of shrapnel. There was smoke and flame and blood and screaming.

Mazzo really was something special with that grenade launcher. I've never duplicated his skill, but I never go without a frag grenade or two if I can help it.

Rovo let rip with the lascannon. Short, controlled bursts of energy lashed out at the enemy. I had seen lasfire before. It looked exactly like the little lightning bolts Jons had described, but this was different in terms of sheer volume. Let me give you a bit of advice: Never ever stand around in the open if the enemy could be packing automatic support weapons.

There was so much fire going downrange from those triple rotating barrels that I hardly noticed Mazzo adding accurate point fire to the barrage, nor Jons meticulously picking off targets from his elevated position.

Sarge's voice cut through the din of battle. "Move boy, we're falling back." I was released from the vice-like grip his back had on me. When I looked around, confused as hell, he shoved me none too gently in the right direction. "Back to Rovo's position. Fast as you can. I'll cover you," he shouted over the din of battle.

So I did.

The enemy's meagre return fire didn't touch me. Neither did fear; I was high as a cyber-kite on adrenaline and felt quite invincible.

The rest of the small squad followed suit. Soon we were hustling down deserted streets filled with nothing but rubble and lined with ruined buildings. The enemy didn't seem inclined to pursue.

Vengeance had been delivered in full. Perhaps my mother's troubled soul would find the rest in death it had never found in life. And if there really is a ferryman, he had just been paid in full in bloody coin.

We rendezvoused with Jons at a predesignated location - an abandoned building that wasn't completely ruined, a distance north-east of the Forbidden Zone.

"That, boy," Jons said, "was one of the most reckless things I've seen in my life."

He wasn't angry with me, I could tell by the tone in his voice. More like incredulous.

"Those shots...how did you manage? The range was over forty meters, well over forty meters. I saw it on the drone repeater display. Even an expert pistol shooter would be hard pressed to do that. Under optimal conditions."

My body was shaking from exhaustion and the aftereffects of repeated adrenaline surges. So it didn't take much to put on a credible show for the Guardsmen. "I...I can't explain it. I just knew they were guilty so I did what seemed best at the time...I just brought up the pistol and fired...kept firing until it was empty. Then I ran."

Jons nods. "Yeah, I noticed." He gives you a pat on the shoulder. "Don't do that again Haxtes. It was a miracle that you hit them both, a miracle that you didn't get killed, and a miracle you ran straight into our arms."

I didn't know about no miracles. Put gunmetal in my hand and I felt confident I could do it again.


	37. CHAPTER 28 - THE NEW RECRUIT

When I got back home it became apparent that things weren't going to work out as planned. To start with Jax was there. That was awkward, to say the least. I had hoped he wouldn't be around. I had chosen sides now, and would rather not have a confrontation with my brother over my choice.

I told them about Mother, but the story came out wrong. Jax hadn't been in on the action, but he knew what had happened to her, in a general fashion. Mother was to blame for her own death, for leaving us alone, for fornicating with the enemy.

My brother kept on talking; about how wicked the Imperials were, and how he was going to fight back. How he would join the Kiones. How they would lead all true Akakians to rise up against the oppressors. For him to join forces with the very men who had tortured, raped, and killed our mother spoke volumes of his character and mental state.

I fared no better with Jons. I tried to paint him and the other Guardsmen in favourable light. But suddenly it was all Jons' fault; he'd been bad to Mother and whatnot. Even I wasn't in the clear. If it wasn't for my damnable cake, none of this would have happened.

Jax was completely deluded, that much was clear. But I knew the truth. The Kiones were the bad-guys in this particular play, not the Imperials.

Knowing that I had just helped give his precious rebels a kick in the balls felt impossibly sweet. I wanted to scream it at Jax, but knew only problems would come of it. So I kept my peace and waited for a better opportunity.

When later I tried to confide in my sister about my deal with the Guardsmen, I couldn't quite find a good angle. At any rate I could have saved myself the trouble. My sister just didn't seem to care, one way or the other. She had become Eli the Lizard again, sitting there motionless, soaking up the sun, staring at everything and nothing.

I decided to stick around a while longer to see if things would change. I remember being wary for a time that my involvement with the gunfight would become common knowledge. But the moment eventually passed. If anyone had survived the encounter, the boy that ran wouldn't be their primary concern.

Couple of days later I was skulking around the indig market, when I heard the first exaggerated tale of what had gone down. A full platoon of IGs had set up an ambush for a squad of freedom fighters. Apparently my fellow Akakians had fought so bravely the Imperials had been forced to retreat.

Other versions had even less in common with the truth. I sensed the preacher's hand behind it all, carefully twisting events to make it seem like the insurgents were on the offensive. That was kind of impressive actually, to be able to turn a lost battle into something that strengthened your overall position.

Other rumours confirmed my suspicions. Mother wasn't the only whore to have been roughed up - but she was the only one done in so thoroughly. I failed to learn why she in particular had been subjected to torture and consigned to death. Perhaps there wasn't a reason to be found.

Relatedly it didn't take long for Jax to find a more permanent place among the insurgents. Up until then he'd only been a peripheral member, a prospect if you will. Now he was elevated into the company of mother-killers and other ne'er-do-wells. Unsurprising perhaps, given the fact that Jons and his boys had wiped out a couple of squads, leaving the preacher-man short on manpower. Well, the useless cur contributed virtually nothing to our family's cause anyway, so the less we saw of him, the better.

Overall there was a sense of rising tension within the Indig Zone as Preacher Maxentius - that was the name of the fucker who had had my mother butchered - used every resource at his disposal to strengthen the Kiones and sour the tenuous peace between Protasian survivors and Imperial occupiers.

Back at the apartment, or whatever you want to call it, things were also changing. It didn't take long for my sister to take up our mother's craft. I guess she was a little on the young side, but she was physically rather mature, and already thoroughly mentally traumatized, so I don't think she suffered too badly, all considered. I for one didn't object. We had to eat, and she was our only real source of income.

I was, however, concerned that her new occupation would attract the ire of the Kiones, which could potentially ruin my deal with Jons. I could even be in danger myself, if they decided to deal with my troublesome family once and for all.

When nothing happened I assumed the Kiones had bigger things to worry about than the whore daughter of a dead whore. Later events would prove me wrong, but I didn't realize it at the time.

For my own part I spent my days hanging around the compound of the 57th Lo Mechanized Regiment. It was quite the mixed crowd really. After their experiences on the Spinward Front, only a reinforced battalion remained of the original regiment. Not nearly enough men to qualify the 57th as combat-capable.

So when then Munitorum decided to send them into the Protasian warzone, instead of home to Lo, they had gone ahead and authorized the inclusion of non-regimental personnel.

As a result the 57th Lo included soldiers from at least six other regiments, two of them Loi and four from other worlds, some Penal Legionnaires that had been pardoned, the remnants of a PDF company from one of the planets in the Periphery, as well as some ratings and petty officers scrounged up from Navy vessels that had been crippled over Protasia.

The regiment was nowhere near homogenous, but months of fighting together on Protasia had forged them together into a cohesive unit - or at least as much as could be hoped for. It wasn't difficult to see that a lot of the credit for this feat of leadership lay with Colonel di Cavour, Major Burness, and Commissar Joaquin.

Colonel di Cavour was the regiment's original commanding officer. The man wasn't particularly clever to begin with. His drinking habits didn't make it any better. He was, however, the spitting image of a heroic commanding officer. The uniform suited him perfectly, and he had great courage and a talent for action. When it came to playing his part he did so effortlessly and with great panache. The men loved him, not for his military skills, but for being one of them - a man of flesh and blood, cast adrift upon the tides of war.

Burness wasn't a Loian at all, but a Scintillan nobleman, a fifth son with no prospects outside military service. He was the sole officer with actual staff training - and as it turned out he had actually had a flair for combat command. If di Cavour lacked anything as an officer, Bruness more than made up for his deficiencies. Together they were quite the team.

Joaquin I already knew. He was a commissar through and through, but he was also a very clever man. He knew when to look the other way, and when to conduct battlefield executions. The men of the new 57th feared him, but they didn't loath him the way many soldiers do their commissars. Which made them far less likely to shoot him in the back, or cut his throat while he slept. You'd be surprised how many Commissars get done in that way.

Since coming to Protasia the newly reconstituted 57th had lost enough additional manpower to make them a regiment on paper only. I remember asking Jons about it once, but he couldn't - or wouldn't - give me an accurate figure. So I tried counting. I eventually gave up and decided the 57th was comprised of around eight hundred men at the time, give or take a few. More like a reinforced battalion than a true regiment.

While none of the other soldiers warmed to me like the four men of 'my' squad, I made an overall favourable impression and was gradually accepted as a sort of regimental mascot. Had circumstance been different, I don't think things would have worked out quite as well for me. I would have remained an outsider and not been allowed to become part of the unit.

The fact that the 57th was made up of so many different groups of people helped me a lot, I think. Same with the news that the regiment was to be given settlement rights on Protasia. It made the men a lot more accepting of changes. And it had made them begin to think of life as civilians. Protasian civilians. Not so different from me. I got a lot of questions about my mother and my sister, which I deftly deflected by referring them to the Commissar.

My own agenda was quite simple: To mine the Guardsmen for as much gun lore and warcraft as possible. And I'll tell you this; a veteran Guard outfit like the 57th has loads of battle wisdom to share.

Jons was always helpful, but he was on duty a lot. Rovo was very nice to me, but wouldn't teach a kid anything worthwhile. Mazzo and Sarge I stayed clear off. They accepted me hanging around, but they would never dream of treating me anything like a soldier. I was just a dumb kid that their buddy happened to like.

I started out by identifying those soldiers I thought would be the most likely to accept me. It was a little touch and go in the beginning, but I can be quite charming when I want to. Plus I played the useful-kid-brother card for all it was worth. I ran errands, listened to their war stories, and generally made myself useful.

I also took great care not to appear too needy or otherwise try to get too close to any of the soldiers. I think I realized, on an instinctive level, that these men were, in their own ways, as traumatized as myself. So I maintained a polite emotional distance.

Little by little I got some of the Guardsmen to open up. You'd think these men had other duties to attend to, but the fact is they were in garrison mode. With nearly a thousand people to pick from, there will always be someone who is off duty. Someone bored, someone willing to teach.

I was an apt pupil, and quickly took in everything I could pester them to show or teach me. I won't claim it qualified as a full military education, but at least I got the basics down pretty good. I felt I could handle basic weaponry and care for it. Same with some of the utility equipment the IGs lugged around. Plus I picked up all sorts of useful lore and skills that could help me survive in various situations.

When the soldiers couldn't be bothered to instruct me, I would spend time reading the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. For such a small book it contains a lot of useful stuff; I'd say that there isn't a page or passage wasted. Everything is so clear and so well laid out, that even an illiterate idiot can grasp the basics. Which I guess is the point.

I even picked up some tactical knowledge, some of which is universally applicable: Hit the enemy when he least expects it, hit him hard - and then keep hitting him 'til he's not moving anymore. This fundamental battle wisdom, combined with my own principle of running away to fight another day, rather than being killed by a superior enemy, has served me well ever since.

In the process I also learned a little more about the four men that made up what the others now jokingly referred to as 'Squad Haxtes'. I didn't particularly care about their histories, but it always pays to know as much as you can about the people around you. Besides, it made for some fascinating listening for a nine-year old that had never left his homeworld.

Sarge had been a sergeant even before the draft. He'd been with the Loi PDF for years and years. When the time came for men to be tithed to the Guard he found himself in a peculiar position. Either volunteer for service, or be executed for disciplinary infractions. You know, accepting bribes, dereliction of duty, striking an officer, that sort of thing. As far as I could tell he was guilty of all that - and more. His previous military experience made him invaluable to K-company; the Departmento Munitorum drill instructors they send to the mustering only have time to teach new recruits the barest basics before the green Guardsmen hit the warzones.

Mazzo had faced a similar choice. Twenty years of hard labour or volunteer for the Guard. His background was quite different though. Mazzo was a Made Man back on Lo, a career criminal, specializing in hi-tech burglaries - hence his skill with the auspex. He had declined the offer, much preferring to do some time among friends, rather than die on a distant world. But the tithe agents had put his name down anyway. He had tried to object, but the Adepts of Terra care nothing for the plight of one man.

Roverto had been a skilled labourer in one of the many weapon-forges of Lo. His name had been one of those randomly drawn from the worker pool. A bit of bad luck, and suddenly he was in the God-Emperor's uniform and on his way to the Spinward Front. His courage, strength, and talent for weapons handling had made him a natural soldier.

Jons was a rat-catcher - those rats grow to the size of a small equine -back on their homeworld. When the Regiment was mustered it needed good reconnaissance men. And there are no better scouts on Lo than the vermin-hunters. Jons wasn't the victim of bad luck or a life of crime, his name just came up on a short list of eligible candidates and that was that. He'd bid his old folks and his siblings goodbye, given his fiancé a night to remember, and then shipped out.

"Could we skip forward a bit?" you ask politely, but firmly. "All this camaraderie is very nice, but I'd like to cut to the end of it."

"So you only want to hear about the bits where I get slapped around?" Haxtes chuckles. "You're even less empathic than I first thought."

You decide not to rise to his jibe.

Haxtes taps his fingertips on the wooden desktop. "Very well, we'll skip forward. Just note that I was trying to make a point; despite the chaos surrounding me, I was coming into my own."

"I've noticed. Point taken and so forth. Now move forward." You're quite insistent.

"It wasn't a conscious thought, but somewhere deep down inside I knew that this business with weapons and killing was part of my nature. I was definitely going to stick with these Guardsmen, go with them when they were relocated. They would provide the security my mother and brother could not - and they could teach me the things I needed to know."

You just nod and urge him to push on with a mental nudge.


	38. CHAPTER 29 - GUARDSMAN FOR A DAY

A while later, maybe six or seven weeks, autumn was past us, there was an incident. Jax dropped by, itching for a fight. We had hardly seen him during the last month, so I guess we were a bit surprised.

He marched in, bold as brass, called Eli a fucking whore, a traitor to Akakios, a dishonour to our family's ancestors, and so forth. He'd never done that before. Up until that point he had gladly taken the food Eli's whoring had bought us.

It was clear something lay behind this confrontational line. I think his brotherhood of rebels had egged him on to confront her. Teach the little slut a lesson. You do as we say or you'll end up like you mother. Something along those lines.

The time had come for him to prove his loyalty to the group. So that was that reason why they hadn't bothered Eli before - they had saved her for something special.

It didn't work out as Jax had planned.

Eli just looked at him and her eyes went all black. No whites, no irises, only solid, black orbs. I could feel the temperature in the room dropping sharply.

My brother Jax pissed himself, and the fled the scene without looking back.

That was the last thing I saw of him for a long while - a puddle of piss steaming on the cold rockrete floor. I cherished that memory for a long time.

With Jax out of the picture, I again brought up my proposal that we join with Jons and the 57th. Eli looked at me for a long time. I wondered if I had pushed her too far, too soon. That I might get the Jax treatment. But then she suddenly smiled and it was agreed.

Since we still didn't know when the 57th would move out we continued with our daily lives. I hung around the Guardsmen and my sister spent her days whoring. But I knew we lived on borrowed time, and I couldn't wait to be away.

The Commissar had given orders that the regiment was to keep up the pressure on the insurgents. There was clearly something big afoot and he didn't want to lose the initiative. Under no circumstance were the insurgents to be allowed to consolidate under their new leader, or gain greater control over the civilian population. The IGs were unusually tight-lipped around me, but I caught heresy whispered on several occasions. One time I overheard Sarge and Jons talking softly about something called the 'Word of Light'. They shut up as soon as they became aware of my presence. I was sure that asking around would cause trouble, so I put it out of my mind and focused on my day to day activities.

So the grunts were out on the streets again, looking to stir up some trouble. Jons figured that my presence would antagonize the insurgents even more, so he let me tag along. He didn't want a replay of my earlier solo foray, however. I wasn't even allowed a gun. The rest of the K-company veterans had pretty much the same loadout they had carried back when we had gone searching for my mother. We also had reinforcements, bringing our number up to twelve men - and one boy.

Jons had another Loian with him. I never got his name, but I through of him as Hash, on account of his sergeant hashes. He wasn't originally from the 57th Lo, but from the disbanded 627th. The two of them made up our scout-sniper element. Despite Hash's superior rank it was Jons who called the shots, and Hash who carried the long-range vox set.

The other seven newcomers were a mixed bunch. There was even a woman, named Cresside. She was more of a man than most of the male soldiers. She had been a Chimera gunner, back when her regiment still existed. We had Ivo, who wasn't really a Guardsman, but a PDF trooper from some place called Hervara. He was what amounted to our medic. Next came Ribaldo and Vincenzo, both men from the Lo 57th, Mike company. Ribaldo was your archetypical rifleman. Vincenzo was a weapon specialist, with a penchant for melta guns. From Luggnum there was Rat. It wasn't his real name of course, but everyone called him that, him included. The final two were Owan and Lasar. Owen was a naval armsman turned infantryman; his dear battlecruiser had been crippled over Protasia, and as a result he had been reassigned to the Imperial Guard and handed a lasgun. Lasar was a beef farmer from a shithole planet called Cyrus Vulpa, a place whose only claim to fame is to be the place to herd grox. I had no idea how he ended up in the Imperial Guard; he hadn't been part of any official mustering, that part was clear.

Anyway. The only thing we had in common was that everyone had volunteered. Technically only Jons had volunteered at first. Sarge, Rovo, and Mazzo had followed him, just like I knew they would. The other sniper came along as a favour to Jons. The rest of the squad had stepped forward, one after another. It wasn't volunteering in the classical sense. More like a feeling that their time was up. If they didn't shoulder this one, they would only be assigned to something worse down the line.

The special squad's assignment was to walk around, look menacing, and question the locals. Not too roughly, but none too gently either. Getting noticed was the key, without making it too obvious we were the bait.

My own job was to stay out from underfoot as much as possible. I think I managed that task pretty well.

As the day wore on we got deeper into indig territory. All of us could feel the tension mounting. The calm before a storm and all that.

Snipers and road bombs were a very real danger. One of Jons' drones picked up one of the former before he had a chance to fire on us. Jons took him out with a single long-range lasround to the head. We evaded three of the latter with the aid of long experience and Mazzo, who was such a brilliant auspex operator.

Eventually a group of insurgents tried to ambush us, but once again Jons picked them up first. A brief firefight followed, but we were not there to win, only to get their attention.

We fell back. We came under fire again, heavier this time. We fell back again. Soon we were involved in a running battle with small groups of insurgents. They knew the area better than we did, but we had a plan and superior firepower.

Our only real casualty was Beef Farmer Lasar. He took a stray autogun round to the shoulder. Fortunately for him the 57th Lo wears reinforced combat vests, not the heavy ceramite type, but the triplex flak kind, which probably saved his life. He lived, and could walk, but he couldn't wield his rifle anymore. Ivo gave him a few stimms to keep him going.

By early afternoon we had been hounded all the way back to one of our preplanned rendezvous locations. The insurgents were hot on our tails and we needed to get into cover, recuperate, and organize a defence. We got a brief breathing space after the insurgents had tried a quick rush of the building, and been rebuked with lasfire and frag grenades.

The building Jons had picked for us had taken a few artillery rounds on the middle floors and was thoroughly burned-out, but still structurally sound. Before the war a local Commercia guild had operated out of the first to third floors. The ground floor had held Thira's most renowned confectionery, and the upper three stories some semi-luxurious apartments. None of that remained.

The important part was that it provided ample cover and concealment, with little danger of additional fires. Moreover the building sat in a Y-intersection, just where the Boulevard of Heroes branched to become the Esplanade and the Champs-Thira. This gave our firebase a triangular shape, which was to our advantage, given the limited manpower at our disposal. Of the two buildings at our backs, one was a complete ruin and the other one was structurally unsound. Chances were slim that the enemy would come from that quarter.

Which in practice left us with two sides to cover; enemies that came down the Boulevard would be in the open and visible to the defenders on either side, until they were very close.

We had three CAS drones out and up. A fourth drone had lost anti-grav, so Jons had concealed it among some rubble on the rooflet that covered the main entrance. With Jons up on the sixth floor with the Eye we were pretty well covered. From up there our two scout-snipers could spot anyone approaching, and effectively fire from multiple preplanned positions. It also gave Hash's vox set better range.

Sarge put Mazzo and Rovo in charge of one fireteam each.

Mazzo got Cresside, Ivo, and Ribaldo. Cresside sported a bipod-mounted support las. Not quite as powerful as Rovo's multi, but much handier. Ivo and Ribaldo brought their lasguns to the fight; Ivo the medic had compact carbine type weapon, whereas Ribaldo sported a powerful hellgun pattern, complete with a backpack-type power unit.

Rovo took Rat and Owan. Neither man had any special weapons nor equipment, just their regulation lasguns, but Rovo's multi-las meant the three of them had at least as much firepower between them as Mazzo's four-man team.

The teams were stationed close to the leading edge of the building, on the third and fourth floors respectively. Jons didn't want both teams on the same floor in case the enemy brought heavy weapons to the fight.

Mazzo's team watched the Esplanade, Rovo's the Champs. They would fire singularly or together, moving from one side of the building to the other as required to keep the enemy at bay.

Sarge was lurking, alongside Vincenzo and his melta gun, on the first floor, just above the main stairwell. He'd set his explosive multi-charges around the perimeter the main hall and the stairwell. When the first rush of men came, they would trigger one or more of the charges. Sarge and Vincenzo would then rough them up a bit with flechettes and melta blasts, then retreat up a story. Sarge would active the next set of charges, then repeat until the two of them reached the third floor.

I was sitting on a bench with Beef Farmer Lasar, near the stairwell on the third floor. The injured man was holding up well enough. He still had his rifle, but since he was in position to use it, he was forced to reply on his laspistol sidearm.

I was armed again. Jons had lent me his sliver pistol. Up top he had no need for it. To me it looked a lot like a standard autopistol. Jons explained that the difference was mostly inside, but didn't go into details except to explain it had low recoil and made minimal noise.

Lasar and I were to hold there until Sarge and Vincenzo came up. Together we'd hold some more, to allow Mazzo's team to reach the fourth floor. Next we'd follow on their heels, and join forces to keep the assaulters at bay. The idea was to hold the stairwell for as long as Roverto had ammo remaining and was in a position to fire. If the situation became untenable everyone would retreat all the way to the roof.

It was as good a plan as any.


	39. CHAPTER 30 - ONLY WAR

I got bored waiting in the stairwell. Lasar looked like he wasn't going anywhere, so I slipped up the stairs and up to the roof. The new sniper didn't look very pleased, but Jons waved me over and I slipped down next to him.

"I remember hearing Sarge tell you to stay with Lasar in the stairwell," he whispered.

"New orders," I said.

Jons just chuckled.

More men had gathered in the ruins around out location, close to two hundred, according to Jons. He figured it had to represent the bulk of the fighting men available to the Kiones. I think he was a bit surprised by the large turnout. I had heard him and Sarge discussing enemy numbers earlier, and Sarge believed the Kiones couldn't have more than a hundred men under their banner.

Gathering together like this would be a very bad course of action for insurgents. It was by avoiding stand-up fights with the IG they had been able to grow. They usually operated in small groups, struck from hiding, and then faded away. They engaged in sniping and used improvised explosives to make movement difficult for the Guard.

But this wasn't a normal situation. We had - again - taken a long good piss at whatever authority Preacher Maxentius had managed to build up, both with his own men and with the locals. If he didn't act quickly and decisively, neither his men nor anyone else, would ever take him seriously.

Jons eventually chased me off the roof. I wandered down the stairs again. I checked on Lasar, but he'd fallen asleep. I went to check on Mazzo's team. They weren't doing much except waiting. None of them wanted me around, so I went back up to the fourth floor to see what Roverto was up to.

Rat and Owan had persuaded Roverto to make some improvised barricades to protect their flanks and rear. Both men seemed convinced the enemy would find an alternate route into the building and fall us in the back. Roverto didn't share their concerns, but had agreed to put the other two at ease. They didn't seem to mind my presence - Rat even called me 'his little canary' - so I curled up behind one of the barricades and fell asleep.

They came at us right before dusk. Whatever passed for their officers must not have believed them to be sufficiently skilled to carry out a coordinated night-time strike. They compensated for the lack of darkness with a liberal dose of suppressive fire and home-made smoke bombs, plus a fully functional Chimera. I wondered where they'd scrounged it up from; it looked well maintained and still had its Imperial Guard markings intact.

The presence of an armoured vehicle was an added complication. The enemy infantry could advance in relative safety behind the Chimera's heavily armoured body, while the vehicle's multilas provided accurate covering fire. I knew from personal experience just how dangerous such a weapon could be. The one mounted on the Chimera was even more potent than the one Rovo lugged about. It had superior rate of fire and higher energy output. Plus it had an effectively unlimited ammo supply; it drew power from huge energy stacks that were, in turn, recharged by the Chimera's powerful engine.

The vehicle got to about eighty meters from the main entrance before Mazzo managed to put a missile into it. The Chimera survived the hit - damnably resilient machines Chimeras are - and started peppering the upper stories with lasfire. Mazzo's fireteam relocated to the other side of the building and he tried again. This time he went for the gun cupola rather than the main body. The missile struck true, and the gun fell silent. The Chimera continued to lumber forward, but at least we didn't have to worry about the multi anymore.

I backed away from my observation post, scurried over to the stairwell, and went down to check on Lasar. He was awake, but seemed a little unfocused.

Down on the ground floor I could hear the first directional charges going off. There were sounds of automatic shotgun and autogun fire, interspersed with more irregular booms whenever Vincenzo fired his melta gun. Sarge had placed his charges well, and for a few confusing minutes the first enemy push was halted in the entrance hall.

Lasar looked at me encouragingly. "It'll be all right kid. They are just where we want them."

I could see he was in pain; his eyes were kind of hazy and his skin looked feverish. "I know," I replied curtly.

I dug out his canteen for him and made him take a sip.

"Thanks, kid," he said and handed back the canteen. "I'm just a little tired, is all."

"Fuck tired," I replied. "Soon those assholes will be coming up those stairs. We gonna need that pistol of yours."

"I guess you're right," he began. He shook his head a bit to clear his mind, and then prodded around his trauma pouch for a while. "Go find Ivo, see if he has some more stimms. I'm all out," he concluded.

I spun around and headed for Ivo's position.

'"Friendly," I screamed at the top of my lungs, "coming through!"

None of the soldiers turned to look at me. They kept their eyes on the enemy and their hands on their guns. Now that the Chimaera's gun had been taken out they were able to fire to good effect at targets in the streets below.

I skidded over to Ivo. "Lasar needs stimms," I shouted.

"Right back pocket, green auto-syringes," he shouted back at me, continuing to fire all the while.

I grabbed two and closed the pouch after me. I didn't get more than two meters before something exploded inside and adjoining room. The force of the blast was considerable. I was thrown to the floor, and my ears began ringing like crazy.

When I got my breath back I twisted and looked around. Ivo was down, but like me he had been shield from the brunt of the blast by a low wall. Ribaldo wasn't as fortunate. He lay there, motionless, covered in dust specked with red. Several of his limbs looked like they had acquired new joints. I was sure he was dead, until I heard him moan.

Mazzo appeared from somewhere. "Get the fuck out!" he shouted at me. So I did. I got up and ran crouched for the stairwell. Behind me I could hear him shouting to the rest of the fireteam, for Ivo to help him drag Ribaldo and for Cresside to keep firing.

Having tested and breached our defences, the enemy launched several consecutive waves of attackers across the Esplanade and the Champs. They were fairly well organized and quick about it. There was no way we could hold so many of them back. Any attempt to fire at them was met by volumes of suppressive fire, including a multiple-launch missile system, the very one that had just screwed fireteam Mazzo.

I got back to Lasar. He lay there, slumped on the bench where I had left him. He was dead. I couldn't figure out how he'd died. Maybe he had been hit by something? Maybe his injuries had been more severe than we had believed? I shrugged and put the stimms in my satchel.

While I was standing there, undecided, Mazzo and Ivo appeared, dragging Ribaldo after them. Cresside was not with them, and I realized her gun had fallen silent. That didn't bode well for our female gunner.

"What happened," Mazzo asked me, indicating Lasar' body.

Ivo briefly checked Lasar for lifesigns, but found none.

"I dunno," I said. "He was lying like that when I got back."

Ivo bent down to examine Ribaldo.

"Too bad," Mazzo replied, "we also lost the bitch. Got her ugly face blown off by a sniper - I think Jons got him in return though. And Ribaldo here is looking none too good."

"Actually," Ivo interjected, "he's not as badly wounded as I feared. He's got a broken arm and two broken legs, but his vital signs are decent, so I think he's voided serious internal injury."

"Well, keep him sedated then," Mazzo replied. "We'll drag him upstairs. He can be evacuated from the roof - if we survive this."

Ivo grabbed a blue syringe from his medicae kit and pressed it against Ribaldo's neck. Then both men took hold of the unconscious soldier's webbing and made ready to drag him up to the 4th floor.

"You wanna be useful kid?" Mazzo said while hunched over Ribaldo's body.

I looked over at him and was immediately pinned by his gaze. "Sure," I said, somewhat reluctantly.

"Then get your tiny little ass down to Sarge and tell him to get his big fat ass up to the fourth. You got that?" he asked for good measure.

I nodded, rechecked Jons' sliver pistol, and ran down the stairs.

"I realize you were bait, but two hundred heavily armed men, out for revenge, against one squad of Guardsmen...that's long odds."

"Very long," Haxtes agrees. "Even with our preparations it was long odds, and that's before taking the multi-launcher and the Chimera into account."

"Pardon me for questioning the Guard commander's tactics, but it seems to me there must be better ways of getting rid of these insurgents," you continue.

Haxtes shakes his head. "I'm afraid not. If we wanted to deal with them, decisively, we had to draw them out. Make them feel confident enough that they would gather together. Otherwise the 57th Lo would never have been able to destroy them. Hurt them, yes. Destroy, no. In fact, with their new leader and a few small victories under their belt they would only have grown stronger. This was the only way."

"If you say so," you say, sounding doubtful.

"Fortunately we had a plan," Haxtes replies drily.

Now that the enemy had fully committed himself the rain began. Not an ordinary rain, but a rain of anti-personnel submunitions, scattered by cargo shells bursting overhead. Commissar Joaquin had sent Major Burness over to the 10th Laskin Artillery to coordinate. Now they were conducting a fire mission with their Basilisk batteries on our behalf, Jons acting as a spotter and Hash voxing in corrections.

Those of the enemy out on the Esplanade suffered horribly, but those on the Champs fared a little better, on account of having more cover relative to the trajectory of the incoming shells.

The survivors from both streets quickly crossed the remaining distance and got into the relative safety out the building. They joined the squads that were already struggling to get past Sarge and his explosives. It was impossible to say exactly how many were inside the building, but I guessed there might be somewhere between six and eight squads. Meaning it was now nine men and one boy against sixty or so enemies.

Plus the enemy had at least two squads providing covering fire on each side of the building. They packed a handful of heavy support autos, which were a lot more powerful than anything we had, except Rovo's gun. The only saving grace was that the damned missile launcher had fallen silent. I was certain our snipers were responsible for that blessing.

Better odds than before, but still pretty badly stacked against us.

Sarge and Vincenzo had backed up to the first floor after the first firefight. Coming down from the third floor I caught them beating a hasty retreat up to the second floor.

Sarge was dusty and covered in soot, but otherwise looked fine. His weapon smelled strongly of burnt propellant. I vividly recalled the two insurgents I had seen torn to shreds the last time I had seen the weapon in action.

Vincenzo was covering the stairwell, but no enemies appeared. Suddenly there was movement, almost too fast for the eye to follow. Vincenzo shouted, "ripper drones!" then fired his melta gun in the wide dispersal mode.

A dozen or so thumb-sized drones were vaporized by the blast, but he hadn't caught all of them. The rest of the swarm came racing for us. Vincenzo managed another shot before they were upon him, but a good handful avoided the blast and sliced into his body. He didn't so much scream as gurgle.

Sarge shoved me out of the way and towards the stairs. As I scrambled to get away from the razor-sharp drones, he stood there, calm as a rock, swatting the few remaining drones with his shotgun as they tried to chew him up. Sarge got some superficial cuts, and his shotgun came away with two drones bored into the stock, but he didn't look seriously injured.

We hauled ass up to the fourth floor. Mazzo and Ivo had come through already, on their way to the roof with Ribaldo. Sarge lobbed his last charge - held in reserve for just such an occasion - down the stairwell. There was a loud satisfying bang, followed by even more satisfying screams of pain.

Rovo's team - all of them were still alive at this point - joined us in the stairwell, and we made a fighting withdrawal up to the fifth floor. Guardsman First Class Roverto deftly used the gun-mount's servo-arm and suspensors to full effect, covering us every step of the way without slowing us down noticeably. The enemy seemed extremely reluctant to come after us as long as the lascannon had power remaining.

But all clips eventually run dry, and Rovo was forced to discard his main weapon and rely on his hand cannon. A useful self-defence weapon to be sure, but nothing like the multi in terms of firepower. Mazzo and Ivo returned from their trip to the roof, tipping the power balance in our favour. The enemy renewed their assault, but we held them off.

There was a lull in the fighting. Rat and Owan were convinced the enemy was working their way around our position. It seemed a reasonable assumption, so Mazzo ordered the two men to watch the flanks.

Lo and behold - no pun intended - the insurgents made a three-pronged attack on our position, from the stairwell and from our own floor. They had indeed found an alternate route up. Owan fell back to join the rest of us, but Rat was cut off by the enemy.

We had no choice. We had to retreat once more, up to the sixth and final floor. On the way up I shot a particularly eager fellow who tried to throw as sticky-grenade after us. The sliver pistol wasn't quite as powerful as my late autopistol, but it was exceptionally accurate. I purposefully shot him in the arm, foiling his throw. The sticky went off at the poor fellow's feet. He screamed for a while, until blood loss from his missing legs silenced him. To me his screams felt soothing.

Jons joined us shortly thereafter. There was nothing for him to do on the roof. His sniper buddy was up there, manning the vox and keeping an eye on Ribaldo. Together the rest of us would hold the sixth floor until the enemy gave up, or we were all dead.

Below us we could hear the insurgents gathering strength for a final push. When the offensive came it was short lived. Mazzo launched his second-to-last grenade down the stairwell - the last being the traditional starshell - and to our relief it turned out to be a real plasma grenade, rather than the prophesized confetti.

It filled the entire area with hellish fire. Those that didn't die suffered horrible burn wounds or were set on fire. Some of them screamed for a long time. The sounds were sweet in my ears.

My penchant for the screams of the wounded and dying aside: A great cacophony of wind and dust followed in the wake of all this screaming. The Valkyries were here. With heavy bolters pouring out a steady stream of fire to keep any insurgents from popping shots at them, they deposited their precious cargo of Guardsmen on the rooftop before peeling off. Now the remaining insurgents, probably no more than thirty or forty of them, faced twice that number of heavily armed, veteran Guardsmen. The balance of power had shifted entirely in our favour.

The insurgents providing cover from hiding places in the surrounding cityscape fared no better. Heavily armoured Chimeras, bristling with guns and loaded with the remaining men of the 57th Lo, came racing in to close the trap.

I was told the enemy put up an unusually spirited, almost fanatical, fight. Only when faced with two promethium-spitting Chimera variants they had finally lost heart, tried to flee, and run right into the men of November and Lima companies, who had been deployed to counter just such an eventuality. And, like I said, you can't dodge or outrun lasfire.

The insurgents trapped inside the building with us proved equally resilient. They put up a very spirited, if a little unpolished fight, keeping it going until they ran out of space and ammunition. We only got six of them alive, including their leader, the preacher I had so vividly seen directing the abuse of my mother.

We had learned the name of our enemy a few weeks prior: Preacher Maxentius. What little intelligence the 57th had on him indicated he had wandered in from the wilds one day, and immediately set about organizing a resistance movement in Thira.

My squadmates and I did not participate in the final clean-up. I guess you could say that we were generally just worn out and beat up. Rovo was out of ammo, but uninjured. Sarge had taken a nasty shrapnel wound to the scalp - his mates helpfully pointed out it could have been avoided by wearing a helmet - plus he had lots of cuts and bruises. Mazzo had been hit several times. He wasn't seriously injured, but not exactly fit for another running battle. Ivo was pretty much in one piece, but busy vomiting his guts out. It was his way of coping with the downer that follows an adrenaline high. Ribaldo was doing good, all things considered. He got airlifted out once the enemy had been neutralized. Jons, Owan, and the other sniper weren't injured at all, and all three of them looked surprisingly fit, all things considered. The medics recovered the bodies of Vincenzo, Cresside, and poor Lasar. The big surprise was Rat; he was found all the way down on the second floor, severely injured, but still alive. For my own part I was uninjured. I had a few scrapes, but that was all. I was also feeling the aftereffects of too much adrenalin; it made me shake like a leaf, but I didn't puke.

When we got down to the ground the Commissar was there, in his tall black cap and black flak stormcoat. He ordered five of the insurgents flayed on the spot. When the screaming died down, they were hung from light posts in the streets outside as a reminder to other potential insurgents: This is what happens to those that raise arms against the Imperium. Arrayed so they looked eerily similar to Mother.

Commissar Joaquin looked down at me, then over at the preacher who was being held down by two IGs. "This is the man responsible for your mother's torture and subsequent death. He is also a rebel and a traitor to the God-Emperor of Mankind. There can only be one punishment for that. You may carry out the sentence."

And with that he pulled out his bolt pistol, removed the magazine, leaving only a single shell in the launch chamber, and handed me the weapon.

I looked at the gun. I looked at the Commissar. He looked right back at me. I realized with a start that he knew. He knew I blamed him. He knew I had vengeance in my heart. That's why he gave me a pistol with a single shot. Take your shot boy, his eyes were saying, make it count. Do it now, or forever keep your peace.

I looked at Jons. Then I looked at the preacher. He had long since stopped screaming obscenities about the false, Corpse-God Emperor; the IGs had simply smashed his head into the ground until he shut up. I looked at the red ruin that was the man's face. I looked into his eyes, returning hate for hate. I looked at the gun again; I'd scraped up my arm again and red droplets were oozing down my fingers, smearing Joaquin's immaculately polished weapon.

I whipped the gun up and around, and shot the preacher squarely between the eyes. The distance was only five paces, but it was still a nice shot. His head exploded like an overripe fruit in a spray of brains, bone, blood, and gore.

The Commissar retrieved his bolt pistol. The preacher's headless corpse was strung up with the rest of the insurgents. "Another fine victory for the Emperor, another laurel for the 57th. Gather up, were moving out in fifteen minutes."

Jons had a few words with Commissar Joaquin, then came over and took me aside. "We're returning to the compound now. Your mother is dead and I'm sorry for that, but she has a grave, and vengeance has well and truly been served. Go to your sister and wait for me there. My offer still stands; the Commissar has given the go."

I tried to speak, but I couldn't find the words, so I just nodded. I could still feel that bolt pistol in my hand. The weight of it. The kick when the bolt fired. The majestic effect in the target. There are weapons far more advanced and deadly, but there is something about the bolter that appeals to me. I've always strived hard never to be without at least one bolt pistol - preferably two.

"Now get going, you don't want to be hanging around here. Keep the sliver for protection. I can have it back when we move."

I considered giving Jons a hug, just to seal the deal so to speak. But I've never been good at hugging, so I dropped the idea. Maybe it would also be too much, too soon. So instead I turned and started walking towards home.

That the Commissar suspected my true feelings was troubling, but I had obviously weathered that one. I needed to be more careful in the future. I clearly wasn't as good an actor as I had believed.

But what really gnawed was the fact that I hadn't seen Jax among the dead. The Kiones insurgents had been wiped out, but there was no sign of my brother. Some of the corpses had been too badly damaged or burnt to be recognizable, but still...I knew in my heart Jax was still alive. Had he not been trusted to take part in the attack? Or had he been present but somehow survived? I suspected the latter was the case. Abaddon be damned!


	40. CHAPTER 31 - GOODBYES

"You call that the short version?"

Haxtes sighs and leans back. "You're quite the nagging bitch, Interrogator Marcus. That was the short version. The long version had lots of additional emotional content, dialogue, and last, but not least, foreshadowing of momentous events to come."

"I think I'll manage without," you reply. "Now, get on with the story, and for the love of the God-Emperor, skip ahead to something worthwhile."

"So you do concede that it is I that decide what's worthwhile and not? Remarkably clear-sighted of you Interrogator Marcus," Haxtes says.

That's not exactly what you meant. "I..."

Some unseen force grabs at your throat without warning. You can't breathe, let alone speak. The pressure increases, threatening to do much worse that throttle: More of this and your windpipe will be crushed.

You lash out mentally at the only possible source of this sudden attack; Haxtes Guilliman. He deflects most of the psychic force, but you distract him sufficiently to break free of his telekinetic grip.

He tries to grab at you again. You're no telekine, but you know how to fight force with fire. Whatever physical force he applies to you will be returned onto him twofold as heat.

He lets go of you.

Haxtes lifts his hands, not in apology, but as an offer of truce. "Relax. I meant you no harm. I just needed to test you a little."

Your throat is still raw. "Relax?" you croak. "You just attacked an agent of the Inquisition. Swift retribution is required!"

"Well, yes, I believe I just did," Haxtes spits back at you. "Attacked an agent operating without the blessings of the Ordos that is. An agent toying with the thin line between illumination and heresy. Don't get cute with me Marcus. We both know you shouldn't be here. And we both know you will be tested. Be happy - you passed!"

You're still outraged. "If you try a stunt like that again I will retaliate, damage to the tome be damned."

"And risk the wrath of your precious master? I think not," he says mockingly. "If we're quite done, I'll resume."

"We are. For now. But we'll stay at a superficial immersion level."

"As you wish," Haxtes says, and the simulation resumes.

"I didn't meet up with Jons again," Haxtes adds, "nor any of the other men of Kilo company." He does his beard-scratching thing. "Fate - or the gods - conspired against me once more."

"Go on," you say, genuinely intrigued for once.

"I kept a low profile over the next few days, staying mostly indoors and only going out at night. Stayed away from my usual haunts, the 57th compound included."

"Waiting for the word from Jons," you add.

"Yes, but things do not always turn out as expected," Haxtes says solemnly. "One very early morning - the sun was nowhere near up, just barely hinting at dawn - I was ambushed by a group of my fellow Protasians, while on my way back to the apartment."

You suppress a snicker. "The great Haxtes, ambushed?"

Haxtes nods. "Indeed. I had been careful, but not careful enough. Simply put I had succumbed to overconfidence, to hubris. I believed myself victorious and the Kiones destroyed. My cautiousness was only skin deep. I should have known better. I knew that my brother was alive; common sense dictated he was not the only one remaining. There are always survivors, always a seed of heresy remaining."

"They were out seeking vengeance. And of course they knew where you lived," you interject.

"That they did. I blamed Jax. That goes without saying. But truth be told they hardly needed him to locate me."

"So Jax wasn't with your ambushers?" you ask.

"Oh, I didn't say that. I just made a note that even without Jax they could have gotten to me," Haxtes says, draining his drink.

"So he was there then. I guess that vindicated all the bad blood between the two of you," you observe drily.

"Oh yes. Like Space Wolves over Prospero," Haxtes says, making an oblique reference to one of the monumental events of the Horus Heresy.

"So, what happened? How did you survive?" you ask.

"Through no skill or trick of my own. They roughed me up pretty good. I was stealthy and quick and all that, but I was only nine and not much of a fist fighter. I was barely clinging to consciousness and utterly unable to defend myself. I had cracked and broken ribs and internal bleedings and whatnot. And the outside was a tapestry of bruises, scrapes, and cuts."

"And?" you interject, just to interrupt his session of self-pity.

Haxtes, slightly annoyed. "I'm trying to build some tension here...but whatever. And; my sister appears."

"I thought as much," you add.

"I still remember her slender figure, her dark hair tousled by a soft breeze that touched no one else. She stood there and looked at us and I felt my tormentors' determination drain away. Jax was the first to run. The others followed suit quickly enough."

"Your sister, why didn't they just take her down as well?" you ask, but you already know the answer.

"Because of the sweetness between her legs? Guilt over what had been done to her mother? Because of her very dark and eldritch eyes? Or the primeval fear that only proximity to the Warp can conjure?"

He gives you a quizzical look, egging your to reply. But you're determined to leave the majority of the talking to him. Maybe a few interruptions, just to spite him.

"Yes, answer number four is the right one. Jax was already susceptible to her mental influence. When he panicked, the morale of the other men broke. Simple as that," Haxtes finishes.

You ignore his attempt to mock your deductive powers. "So, your sister was evolving into a right little mind-witch," that's not a question, "one of the types of rogue psyker known to be the most susceptible to corruption - and possession." You know this from bitter experience.

"Mind-witch? Take a good look at yourself Marcus," Haxtes say derisively, "and then tell me who the mind-witch is. Mind-raping that poor librarian like that..."

You give him a dead look in return.

Inside your mental fortress you start re-examining your mental architecture. Clearly he's read your thoughts again. There, you've spotted the chink in your armour: A slight flaw allowing remote observation of unarchived memories. The sneaky git!

Well, it won't happen again. You've plugged the gap. But you've also learned a lesson; you need to constantly monitor and re-evaluate your mental architecture and psychic defences. Just setting up something static and trusting it to hold won't work against the tome, no matter how fool proof the setup might seem. You need to be more agile, adapt before the tome can even locate your weaknesses.

"My sister's fortunate arrival - she admitted to having dreamt of my death, so we'll call it premonition, sounds much more heroic that way - saved me. She took me back to the apartment and cared for me. Worked double shifts so to speak, to get the medical supplies I needed."

"That was...nice of her," you admit.

"It was. Which highlighted her later betrayal all the more," Haxtes adds drily. "For days I was delirious. When I came around it was weeks before my body worked properly. I didn't have time to wait. I had this bad feeling in my gut. I had to check in with the 57th."

"Premonition or just heavy bruising?" you try to crack a joke, but get no response.

"I raced down to the compound, but found it deserted. The 57th had packed up and left. Very recently by my aestimate. I wandered the ruins of Thira without purpose until well after dark. Eventually I found myself back at the flat. It was empty. Eli too had abandoned me."

"She went with the 57th, didn't she?" you say.

Haxtes leans back, folding his hands in his lap. "She did. It's one of the more ironic moments of my life: Even as I ran to the compound by the south route, an armoured car had left the main column heading north, and driven into the indig zone to pick me up. They found only my sister, so they took her with them, leaving their brother in arms behind."

"How sad," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Thank you," Haxtes replies, "for your touching concern Marcus. You are a true champion of humanity."

You make your mouth smile, in stiff Haxtes-fashion. "You're welcome." You're not going to let him charm his way out of this that quickly. "And I suppose you put the blame for this where it belonged."

Haxtes grins right back at you. "Well of course I did! It was Jax' fault first and foremost. I also had this splendid paranoid theory about how Eli and Jons had plotted behind my back. Jons had even left Nix behind to torment me a little extra. Everything according to Commissar Joaquin's orders of course."

He helps himself to more amasec. "Took me a while to realize nothing of the sort had transpired. Quite the contrary. The Commissar suspected I was a bit flaky, but was still willing to let me come, since I had passed his little test. Jons genuinely regretted not finding me. And my sister Eli...well, she wasn't quite right in the head, so I can't blame her for plodding along. It was what we had agreed to after all. Jons had left the dawg behind, but not out of ill will - he left it there because he knew I would need a companion."

Your grin widens. "Just pure bad luck then? That really is ironic."

Haxtes' gaze turns inwards and his mien become contemplative, troubled even. An uncommon display of emotion. Real or fake? You cannot tell for sure.

"Certainly bad, but I wouldn't call it pure. Not by any stretch of the imagination."

"What do you mean?" you ask, not quite following.

"Do you believe in luck Marcus? Or do you believe in predestination and the omnipotence of the God-Emperor?"

"I do believe in the divinity of the God-Emperor. And I do believe in Ascension - the ultimate victory of Mankind. But I've seen too much of what the galaxy has to offer, to believe that every little thing is predestined. Whether you call it luck or Chaos or something else is immaterial - there is an element of chance involved in all things."

Haxtes nods sagely. "And you also know of the existence of the spirits of the Aether - including the Daemons of Chaos. You might not like speaking of them openly, but you've already confirmed as much."

You remain impassive. "And this relates to your situation exactly how? A daemon hexed you with bad luck?" you say mockingly.

Haxtes shrugs. "You're the prodigal interrogator. You draw your own conclusions."

Nix the canine steps out of the darkness and circles the table.

"I was alone in the world for the first time. Alone for real. That really rattled my remaining bones. For good or bad I took one giant step towards the man I would later become. Haxtes Guilliman, alone against the galaxy."

"But you weren't alone, the canine was there. Jons left him behind, hoping the animal would keep you sane," you say. It's half question, half statement.

Haxtes continues, unfazed. "I gathered up my few belongings, called Nix over, and stabbed him in the heart with a Protasian-issue service blade."

In a re-enactment of the real event Haxtes calls the canine mirage over and stabs it in the jugular with an unpowered blade. The beast makes no sound of protest. It takes a while to die, leaving a growing pool of blood under the table.

You didn't see that one coming. "You killed you canine? What for? He was your last remaining companion!"

"And that was the reason. He was the last living thing I had any connection to. So I killed him in a pretty insane attempt to spare myself any further agony. And as I said; in doing so I came a lot closer to becoming me."

A measure of enlightenment reaches your mind. "Jax. It was Jax' dog. That's how you rationalized it at the time. I'm right, am I not?"

"Maybe you are Marcus, maybe you are." Haxtes finishes his glass. "He was a good dawg. If anything of him had remained to me I might have had him cloned. Or maybe not, I'm not too fond of clones."

For a moment you're actually tempted to dive back into the simulation just to escape the Haxtes persona. By the Throne he can be vexing at times!

"From your statements I take it you have some knowledge of what happened to the men of the 57th, even though you didn't meet up as planned?" you say, feigning patience.

Haxtes nods. "Indeed I do. For a time I contemplated going after the 57th to exact my vengeance. But I didn't know where they had gone. Nor did I have the resources required to cross a war-torn world. Thira was a dangerous place, but it was a place of known dangers. I had no idea what awaited beyond, nor the means of securing sustenance once I left the city premises."

"Then how did you learn? A psychic trick?" you say sarcastically. "More psychometry?"

Haxtes gives you a disapproving look. "Perhaps I went looking for them on my own, years later, looking to dip my right hand in their lifeblood, but finding them all long dead, I learned their stories instead? Or maybe, when I had become a sworn agent of the Inquisition, I used quite a bit of resources to gather intelligence on my former family members and Imperial Guard comrades?"

Once again you're taken somewhat aback. "You mean you abused the powers invested in you by the God-Emperor for your own personal reasons? That you diverted resources away from hunting heretics, towards personal gratification?"

Haxtes grins, wide and predatory. "I knew you would say that Marcus. You're getting predictable."

You give him a disapproving look of your own. "How clever of you to predict I would be put off by the heretical abuse of the trust given us by the God-Emperor. No wonder you made Interrogator rank Haxtes!"

Haxtes smiles sardonically while pouring himself yet another drink. "Just like you and your shadowy master are diverting from true service to selfish gratification in the pursuit of this tome."

He gives you a telekinetic poke. Not an attack, just a reminder that he's no more pleased with you that you with him. "Now shut up and let me finish."

You oblige him this time.

Haxtes launches into a lengthy monologue. "Sarge went on to become an upstanding member of his community, and eventually accepted a commission as a high-ranking officer in the local PDF. Many years later he volunteered to be assigned as the Colonel of the Protasian 1st Infantry, shipping out that place they call the Jericho Reach."

Images of Sarge in a colonel's dress uniform flashes by.

"Mazzo avoided a return to a life of crime. Instead he did the next best thing, setting himself up as one of the first attorneys at law in his new hometown. His forceful personality and big mouth served him very well indeed. As did his ability to make shadowy deals when appropriate and apply violence when all else failed. He became quite wealthy and was eventually appointed mayor of his new hometown."

A life of crime replaced by a life of law - how oddly similar they seem when presented thus.

"Roverto settled on an abandoned farm. He wasn't much of a farmer, but his mechanical and metal-working skills made him a natural go-to for technical aid. With money lent him by Mazzo he set up a small manufactorum that eventually supplied the entire region with agri-machines and constructo-engines."

Apparently those machines included a range of engines designed to help clean up the devastated Protasian environment. You wonder where they got the templates.

"Jons married my dear little sister, and by all accounts treated her very well indeed. There may even have been love involved, for the both of them. Unfortunately Eli was her mother's daughter. And for the same reasons my father had become alienated, so too did Jons become estranged from his young wife. One night she left him without saying goodbye. Rather than remaining at home, heartbroken and alone with two small children, Jons chose to join his old sergeant for one final campaign. He was not seen or heard from again. Their two children were adopted by Roverto."

Jons' apparition, now an officer in scout-sniper gear, moves to stand next to the Colonel. Eli's images fades away and the two small kids turn and walk towards where Roverto is standing, talking to Mazzo.

"Commissar Joaquin I met again under very different circumstances on a far-away world; as a member of the Commissariat the right of settlement didn't extend to him."

"How very clever of you Haxtes; your statement that you never met the men of the 57th remains true because Joaquin wasn't part of the regiment. He was Commissariat." You get a semi-playful wink as a reward. "Tell me, did you kill him when you got a second chance?" you ask.

"Kill him? Why would I kill him? He had offered me a chance at vengeance and I had passed it over. There was no ill will between the two of us after that. I don't kill random people. Except when collateral is unavoidable."

If Haxtes has a code of honour you've yet to understand it. "And Jax, did you learn what became of him?" you add.

"I certainly looked for him, if that's what you mean. But I couldn't find him myself and my other inquires led equally nowhere. So I had to conclude: Jax was gone from Thira."

"So you never saw him again either? Or did you send acolytes after him too?"

"I didn't have to send anyone after him. He landed in my lap, but that's a story for another time."


	41. INTERLUDE - THE WORD

The man posing as Preacher Molevoch had found Thira to his liking. The city had been spared the worst atrocities. Many buildings were still standing, utilities were - partially - in working order, and the city retained a substantial population. Not as many as it had during the pre-war years, but there were still a couple million people eking out a living without the boundaries of Thira. Moreover the Imperial Guard units garrisoning the place were of the civilized kind. They kept the peace with a minimum of bloodshed. A good place to build a congregation.

Thira was also blessedly free of competition. Both the Adeptus Ministorum and the Inquisition had been through the area already. Wiped clean the slate, so to speak. They had identified the local congregation and wiped it out - to the last man, woman, and child. That was very uncommon, to say the least. Could they have apprehended the Deacon of Thira alive and made him talk? It sounded unlikely, but how else had they been able to root out the Brethren so thoroughly?

It mattered not. The Ministorum confessors and their whores, the Sisters of Battle, the Adeptus Sororitas, were gone. The same with the damned Inquisition. The massive field office the Holy Ordos had maintained in Thira was little more than an empty shell now, manned by a token staff under the command of some nameless interrogator. They cared nothing for Protasian insurgents - as long as no mention of the Word and the Will was made, there would be no trouble coming from that quarter. All he had to do was keep under their auspex for a few years, build up his follower base in the shadows, wait for them to leave completely, and then expand.

No, he didn't worry about the Ministorum or the Inquisition. The real wild card was Verrigan. What would the First Minister do when he took his seat of power? Hopefully not run amok; it would hurt his congregation and there was a chance the Inquisition would come rushing back to check up on things. Unfortunately there was no way knowing what the First Minister would do beforehand. Molevoch could only pray to the True Gods - and offer them rich sacrifices to appease their eternal hunger.

Following his conversion of a handful of guardsmen from the 2nd Battalion, 1013th Thical Infantry, he had adopted an alternate identity, one more conductive to gaining the trust of the Protasian survivors. Gaining a new identity had become imperative once he learned that the current garrison of Imperial Guards would soon be redeployed away from Thira. To the Guardsmen from Thical he was still Reverend Molevoch, but to the Protasians he was Preacher Maxentius, a wandering churchman of their own blood, carried to Thira on the tides of war.

Preacher Maxentius wasn't based upon a real person like Molevoch was. He was just a persona conjured up for the occasion. He looked the same as Molevoch, but his speech and mannerisms marked him as a Protasian. Acting his part demanded little effort, much less than playing Molevoch. The preacher was, after all, Protasian born and bred.

As Maxentius he'd roamed the city and quickly gained converts in the indig zones. Thousands of converts, in just a few short months. The desperate and the downtrodden were such easy prey, so eager to grasp at just the slightest glimmer of hope. He was sure he could have built quite the following, even without the power of the Word infusing his sermons and the judicious application of sorcery to overcome any remaining resistance.

Only some of the converts had yet been fully exposed to the Word, and made into true Brethren. More would follow, until his congregation was strong and numerous once more. The rest of his Thiran adherents made up an outer circle of followers, whose purpose was to provide the inner circle with resources, and to provide a layer of obfuscation. If the Imperium cared to look they would see only some insurgents, and fail to spot Preacher Maxentius spreading the Word of Light.

Trouble had come from an unexpected direction. Not from the Ministorum. Not from the Inquisition. Not even from First Minister Verrigan. It was elements of the Imperial Guard garrison that had chosen to interfere with his growing following in the Indig Zone.

He'd tried dealing with them, but it had all gone to shit. Despite having a force of more than two hundred heavily armed and highly motivated Brethren cult troops, he had failed. The Guardsmen had tricked him, painted him into a corner, and then nearly wiped out his warriors and subalterns.

It was the closest to true death the preacher had been for nearly three hundred years. Not since his pre-Deacon years had he been in such mortal peril. He found himself trapped inside a ruined building, with a superior enemy force converging on his position from multiple directions. He was there, helpless to intervene, as the last survivors of his Brethren warrior fraternity were overwhelmed. Six had been taken alive, Preacher Maxentius included.

He had been forced to call upon one of his oldest and darkest pacts. Even as the Guardsmen had dragged him kicking and screaming into the dusty streets of Thira he had called, and the darkness had answered.

"You will bring me a name, mortal," the darkness had spoken into his mind. "It shall be that name which is both thine and mine, that name which defines the both of us, the name that rings True. This name you will know, and when you know it, you will offer it up to me, and your debt shall be considered repaid in full."

The price the darkness demanded was high indeed, but for once he had no leverage with which to bargain. He'd watched as the captured Brethren were flayed alive and suspended from roadside lampposts to die. He could only agree to the daemons demands.

The darkness had latched onto his soul with fanged tentacles and torn it from his body. It had done with same with one of the enemy soldiers, a man who had been very clever with the skinning knife. Using the infernal powers at its disposal, the darkness had soul-shifted him into the body of the Guardsman, and vice versa. It was a painful, disorienting experience, but still much preferable to being killed.

And none too soon. He'd watched from his new body as the stern faced Commissar of the 57th Lo had ordered some local kid to carry out the execution of the body that had once belonged to a Deacon of the Word.

It was beyond demeaning.

Secure inside his new flesh he'd followed the Guardsmen back to their base. Trying to convert any of them was out of the question. He was barely able to maintain his cover; there were only hazy memory flashes and fleeting emotions to base his impersonation upon. If he started spreading the Word they would become suspicious and alert their officers. He would be dragged in front of the Commissar again, only this time he would have no more tricks up his sleeve. No, he must wait until the opportunity to desert presented itself.

His old body was dead, and with it the two identities of Molevoch and Maxentius. He must therefore establish a new identity and find new converts. It felt like a chore to have to do it so soon again. But the Word and the Will demanded it from him, so that was how it must be.


	42. CHAPTER 32 - A NEW ORDER

You're finally getting somewhere. After the last rearrangement of your mental architecture you've managed to apply a technique that lets you fast forward, skipping the inconsequential stuff, but halting whenever something interesting comes up. Temporal compression it is called; a very advanced technique, known only to an elite few. One of your mental compartments will work at a phenomenally accelerated rate, shifting through Haxtes' narrative. If something worthwhile comes up, the buffer division will alert the observation compartment, allowing you to redirect the information stream into the semi-dormant interactive compartment.

You'll have to be careful though; temporal compression is not without its dangers. The amount of information passing through the mind can easily exceed the brain's capacity to handle. More than one psyker has burned out parts of his mind through reckless application of the temporal compression technique.

There is one other caveat as well; you'll have to go deeper than you're really comfortable with. You have to be there, with Haxtes, and risk being dragged into the deep end where you become him. If you try to keep immersion at the basic conversation level, not even temporal compression can help you.

With a mental equivalent sigh you establish the connection and willingly dive into the deep end.

I lingered for a moment near the statue of the Emperor Ascendant in the Red Square. He towered mightily over the lesser statues of the ancestor-saints of Protasia. Someone had use black spray paint to write slogans on the base of the statue. Clever stuff like 'Free Protasia', 'Death to the slaves of Terra', and 'Go home Imperials'.

It wasn't the actual words that were the most damning, but where they had been written. Someone with anti-Imperial sentiments might have commended the graffiti in general, but the debasement of an image of the God-Emperor is a questionable act at best. Loyal Imperial citizens - and the Ecclesiarchy - would simply call it heresy, and deal with the offender accordingly.

There was dried blood splattered across the rockrete macro-base. It made me suspect that the heretic had been caught on the spot, and summarily executed by being bludgeoned and stabbed repeatedly. I squatted and took a closer look. There was hair and some unidentifiable bodily fluids mixed in with the blood. I put my fingers into the mixture; it was cool and sticky, but not completely dried up. Must have happened a few hours ago. I lifted my fingers to my face and sniffed. It smelled musky and sweet; a particulate distillation of the pain and fear that precedes a violent death.

I tilted my head backwards, closed my eyes, and listened to the wind: A young man, little more than a boy, sneaking through the morning mist, painting his slogans, before defecating at the base of the statue. Two Guardsmen coming out of the mist, guided by their auspex set. The boy tries to run, but you can't dodge lasbeams, and the fog only gives so-so concealment from the Mechanicus-crafted preysights strapped to their lasguns. The boy survives the shot to his calf, so they drag him back. Make him eat his own shit after first beating him senseless. Then they gut him good with their combat blades, and let him bleed out to appease the God-Emperor watching from above.

That boy could easily have been me. Save that I would never do something so terminally stupid. Why anyone would risk their life for a chance to scribble on a stone was beyond me. I couldn't wrap my head around it. It was unfathomable. I was only twelve. I had survived on my own in a war-torn hell-hole for more than three years. Survival was my craft. Survival meant stealth. It meant being careful. Meant not attracting attention.

The corpse had been dragged a ways to the western edge of the square and strung up across the chest of one of the smaller ancestor statues. The carved red stone depicted an older male, bearded and in his formal robes. I didn't remember who he was - or rather I couldn't really tell him apart from the others. Our ancestor-saints were almost universally old, wise, bearded, and robed. This one had no distinguishing characteristics that I could see, so that made identifying him practically impossible.

I had a brief flashback to the pre-war period: Had the grid been operational I could have used my lock to gain whatever information was available on the statue. I could have conjured forth virtual tags to name each and every statue in the square. I could have looked up whatever had been written about this particular ancestor. Looking back it seemed so utterly pointless. What had we been thinking?

I shook my head and returned to the present. No use lingering on that which cannot be changed. Looking up I saw that the statue had weathered the assault largely intact; a few glancing hits here and there, a broken wing, but otherwise it was whole. The majority of the other saintly figures had fared worse - they had either been damaged during the assault on Thira, or disfigured later on by bored Imperial soldiers. The Vaxanites were particularily fond of destroying stuff when they didn't have anything better to do. Well, better they did the statues than take it out on the survivors; perhaps it was the ancestors providing their descendants with a little protection.

They hadn't protected this kid though. He hung there, quite dead. The stringing up was intended as a warning to other would-be rebels, traitors, and heretics. You do anything we don't approve of, you end up like this, dead and strung up. Or maybe strung up first and then left to die. Or maybe like my mother, brutalized, abused, and then strung up to die.

It was now four years since the invasion began...if that tactic had been at all effective you would think that the bloody Protasians had learned their lesson by now. Either the Vaxanites were dimmer than most, unable to come up with something more creative - or they simply enjoyed brutality too much to want to change their strategy. Maybe both.

I heard the muffled sounds of two patrolling Guardsmen - possibly the very men that had killed the boy - from within the thick Thiran morning mist. Technically they weren't Guardsmen anymore. Their regiments had been disbanded, the men given settlement rights. They were now citizens of Protasia. So that made them Protasian Planetary Defence Force troopers, but I still thought of them as IG grunts.

The patrol wasn't close enough to cause me trouble, even if they had auspexes. This I knew from experience. I scurried over to the statue and deftly ascended, so that I was level with the corpse. They had stripped the dead boy of any obvious valuables, but they hadn't done a very thorough job. I came away with a few minor items, including a very nice needle and some khaki-coloured thread. The dead boy also had a small grenade stuffed down his shorts. Getting it out was rather odious; death had emptied his bowels quite thoroughly. I'd been through worse for less.

Sliding down again I took a moment to survey my booty. The grenade was about half the size of those the IGs lugged. Pre-war Protasian issue, standard fragmentation grenade. Good for long throws, only marginally less powerful than the Imperial equivalent. It was filthy, but otherwise looked to be fully functional.

For some reason I started thinking about a poop grenade my brother had once made. I almost giggled, but the moment of gaiety was soon drowned by waves of bile. I didn't have a brother. I didn't have a sister. I didn't have a family at all. I banished the noisome reminder of them from my mind.

With my mood so fouled, I contemplated using this newfound treasure against the two patrolling soldiers, but I quickly put it out of my mind. The satisfaction would be short-lived, and I would draw all sorts of unwanted attention. The last thing I wanted was to bring more troopers here. Besides, a grenade was worth something on the Cold Market - or it would make a nice booby trap for one of my hideouts. Blowing up two random grunts simply wasn't worth it.

The two voices drew nearer. They were discussing the merits of Protasian women. Both agreed they were good for looking and fucking, but that they needed generous amounts of slapping around to be manageable. Both men were also pleased that they had been fortunate enough to be awarded with a woman. Unless you were an officer there were no guarantees. And except for the occasional terrorist bombing and insurgent sniping life was pretty good. A lot better than life on their own homeworld by the sound of them.

Their level of agreement and contentment with the post-settlement situation was touching in a slightly nauseating manner. Again I was tempted to use the grenade.

The Imperial Guard units that had replaced Jons and his brothers in arms were mostly pressganged scum from the Vaxanide underhives. Effective soldiers, but not really colonist material. Despite a long and colourful life, I've rarely had the misfortune of encountering such a band of human effluence. I've met heretics with better morals and manners, and I've killed mutants with better personal hygiene and people skills.

When the Guard had received settlement rights on Protasia, the Vaxanites had begun by purging Thira quite thoroughly. The 57th Lo and the other regiments garrisoning Thira had been content with keeping the pace so to speak. Not so the new guys. They had a whole other agenda; a permanent solution to the 'Protasian problem'.

Exempting those smart enough to abscond before the purges began, the majority of the remaining males had been rounded up and executed by lasfire. The bodies of the dead were processed and turned into protein base. The Vaxanites had no qualms eating the dead, be they Protasian indigs or their own fallen. It felt quite alien to me then, but I've since lived on enough hive worlds to understand their approach - eating the dead is a source of valuable nutrition, and removes the problem of deposing of the bodies, a win-win situation in any impossibly overcrowded human habitat.

Only those who possessed useful skills were spared. Those 'lucky' few were fitted with explosive collars or otherwise neutered, and set to work for their new masters. Tech-skills and constructor-lore were in particularily demand, but there was a host of other jobs, many of the base and laborious, that needed doing. Jobs our new masters either couldn't or wouldn't do themselves. In essence the new Thira became dependent upon slave labour.

The same process was applied to adult women too old to be fertile or too unattractive to be good whores. Either they had useful skills, in which case they became slaves, or they ended up as proteins on someone's plate. The younger, fertile females fared a little better; they were divided as loot between the troopers and officers. Many ended up as trophy wives for the occupiers. Others as communal whores; there wasn't enough women to go around, so organized prostitution was regarded as the next best thing. I'm not sure which assignment was the worst.

Male boys above a certain age were either routinely massacred, or recruited into 'volunteer' companies, where they received rudimentary weapons training, as well as generous helpings of drugs and abuse to keep the manageable. These child soldiers were the primary line of defence against another upsurge in rebellious activity. Our Vaxanite overseers didn't want to do manual labour, and they most certainly didn't want to fight against urban guerrillas. So they solved this in typical Vaxanite fashion by letting us fight each other instead.

Girls ended up as child brides. If the settlement effort was to have any effect every eligible woman must be made to serve, even those not yet old enough to bear children. I'm pretty sure that not all the husbands waited until the girls became of age before they consummated the marriages.

The very young of both genders were spared the meat grinder. Instead they were forcibly adopted away to the settlers - neither the children, nor the adults, had any say in the matter. Everyone had to find a place in Commissar Verrigan's vision for the new Protasia - or die.

"Verrigan again?" you interject. "So Jons was right, someone high up had decided that Thira was too nice for common grunts."

"Indeed. Verrigan had secured himself the entire Mondo Lakes region as his personal fief. All the way from the Mastaris to the Agape Ocean, all of the lake districts, and the surrounding valleys and mountains. Much of it curiously untouched by strategic warfare. Thira lay at the heart of it, and was to be rebuilt and repopulated according to Verrigan's specifications, turned into a new regional capital befitting the First Minister of Protasia."

You add your five centimes. "And this included a reorganization of the civilian population? I'm not surprised it was heavy-handed, not given Verrigan's later excesses."

"Verrigan made Thira into a primary distribution centre for 'retasked' Protasian civilians. People were driven there like herd animals. Millions were forced to walk across great distances, to be sorted, processed, and shipped out to where they were needed. Or killed, in case they weren't desirable. Quite a few were killed."

"But why all this brutality now?" you ask. "Why take care not to devastate Thira during the invasion if he was going to completely fuck it over afterwards? Why not simply have everyone killed using razor-swarms or viral bombs or some such?"

"It certainly didn't make sense at the time...but reading the Malleus files on Verrigan years later made me realize there was a certain insane logic behind his actions," Haxtes replies.

"Ritualistic killings? Yes, that would make sense." you say.

"Sense?" Haxtes counters drily. "Absolutely not. There was no sense, only insanity and boundless corruption."

"That was not what I meant," you reply, "and you know it."

Haxtes lifts his glass. "To small, petty victories," he says, and smoothly drains his drink.

You don't want to let the Verrigan matter slip away; the timing conundrum is still on your list of things you need to check up on. "So you read the files on Verrigan. Am I to assume your master Melbinious was a Malleus Inquisitor, a daemon hunter?"

"You may assume anything you like Marcus," Haxtes says mockingly, "me reading those files had nothing to do with my master's affiliation."

"So you were poking your nose where it didn't belong then?"

"Look who's talking," Haxtes retorts. "I wasn't poking. Not that time. I was given them as part of my mission brief. For a time I was part of the team that hunted Verrigan."

"Seriously?" you ask, but you detect no falsehood in his voice.

"Very," Haxtes replies. "If you bother to listen to my story, I'll tell you all about it. So, should I continue?" Haxtes inquires.

You're about to say yes, when something occurs to you. "You were using psychics, weren't you? Your inhuman accuracy, your ability to stay hidden even when the enemy was using auspexes, the precognition...all of that rogue psychics, right?"

Haxtes nods. "I didn't think of it like that at the time, but yes. I was a rogue psyker, and I was using my powers regularly and without much effort. I was an unconditioned Epsilon grade I'll wager. I was too strong for Zeta, but nowhere near Gamma."

Being an Interrogator you have to ask. "And you suffered no ill effects? Attracted no...unwanted attention?"

Haxtes looks at you, hard. "If you want to know if I experienced bodily corruption or attracted daemonic attention, then please just say so. We're both Throne Agents and we both have Dark Omega clearances. No need to be coy."

You relent. "Very well." You're still uncomfortable speaking about such matters directly. Years of conditioning and experience have taught you otherwise. "Did you?"

"I was blessedly free of taint, moral or physical," Haxtes gives you a playful look, "any lack of morals on my part was entirely of my own doing."

"Don't evade the question, Haxtes," you press.

"You're calling me by my name now? Not thinking of me as 'the construct' or 'the persona'? That's very nice of you Marcus!"

"You're still evading the question. Haxtes."

Haxtes smiles grimly, but his voice contains a hint of ironic humour. "Nothing gets past you Interrogator Marcus," he says grimly. "Very well: No, I suffered no form of corruption during my stay on Protasia. I was rigorously screened upon my acceptance into the Holy Ordos, so my assessment is corroborated by concrete evidence."

"Then you were lucky. Or strong. Or both," you add.

Haxtes. "Strong? Not at all. I wasn't weak, but I certainly lacked the strength of character and focus that comes with the conditioning of the mind and the honing of one's psychic powers." Haxtes continues after drawing breath. "Lucky I wouldn't know. Luck is notoriously difficult to measure."

He locks eyes with you, just like that first time. Again the sense of overwhelming presence. "Or maybe someone was watching out for me," he says matter-of-factly, deliberately avoiding to mention who or what.

Before you can respond, the playback resumes.


	43. CHAPTER 33 - IN THE ZONE

I escaped all this death and enslavement by staying hidden, by staying alone. I had absolutely no illusions about what would happen if I was caught by our new Vaxanite overseers. If I was seen, I would be shot. If I was taken alive they would make sport of me, before putting me down. I had seen it happen enough times for the message to sink in. The boy with the grenade was just the last in a long line.

Simply put the Vaxanites were beasts wearing human flesh. Savage, remorseless, uncompromising. They weren't clever in the fashion of learned men, but they had a certain low cunning that let them spot trouble readily enough. And to the Vaxanites trouble was best dealt with in a violent, permanent fashion. I wasn't the kind of kid they would let live. They'd take one good look at me and decide I was trouble. The only way for me was staying out of sight, out of mind.

I put the grenade into my satchel. There were other, more rewarding uses for it. It would fetch a nice price in the market; despite everything that had transpired the Cold Trade - the local black market - was doing brisk business. The grenade would get me a couple of unopened ration packs, at the very least. Knowing that I would not go hungry for the next few days lifted my spirits a bit.

I waited until the patrol had disappeared, then slipped away. I wandered aimlessly for a while. The weather was on the cool side. Cool, and for the time being, dry. The ground was rather wet and muddy, though. I didn't really mind. As long as I kept moving I wouldn't freeze, and my boots had just received a generous helping of grease and were effectively water-tight.

A couple of hours passed. Eventually I found myself staring at the old Forbidden Zone with the hospital building looming in the centre. After the departure of the 57th Lo I had continued to come here occasionally. I never set out to go the Zone. My legs would guide me of their own volition. Much like they had today.

Whenever I found myself back here, I would just sit and observe for a while. I never tried going back inside, not even in through the outer perimeter. There was no point in trying. I could never get all the way into the buildings to get at the loot. Meaning any attempt would net me nothing, except mortal danger.

Post recompliance there had been continued activity within the zone for a while. I recalled a period when there had been a spur of activity. During that time I had once spied a convoy of ostentatious vehicles with Ecclesiarchy markings and Sisters of Battle riding shotgun. The Imperium's girl soldiers had looked quite impressive and intimidating in their powered armour. I figured they were escorting someone important, but I lacked magnoculars and a good vantage point, so I couldn't see the dignitaries debarking.

When next I visited the market I had stopped by Himilco to bargain for some purification tablets. The old apothecary had tugged at his explosive collar, and kept up a steady stream of gossip. The fabulous Prelate Zhukov was here in Thira to visit his good friend, First Minister Verrigan. It must have been Zhukov's column I saw. If the most important religious figure on the planet was had come all the way out there to Thira he wasn't just making social calls. It had to be something - or someone - important inside the Zone's buildings.

Be that as it may. Eventually the activity dwindled away. No more Valkyrie flights or Chimera columns coming and going. The fragwire fences and servitor sentries remained, but the black-armoured Guardsmen without unit markings went away. Whatever had made the site important had long since moved on or been removed.

Once in a while a Mechanicus maintenance crew would arrive with an escort, stay for a few days, and then leave again. Eventually, I think it was the second winter after I became alone, even the tech-priests had stopped calling in. The Forbidden Zone, and the facility that lay at the heart of it, had stood silent and unused for nearly two years.

Despite a series warning signs posted around the perimeter, proclaiming a ban on the area, issued by Governor Grimes himself, there had been several attempts at getting in over the years. From lone scavengers like myself, to armed bands of Vaxanites, to groups of desperate Protasian survivors.

None had succeeded. They had all been caught by the Zone's automated defences. Killed, or more rarely, driven away. It had been a while since anyone had tried, but I was certain the anti-intrusion measures were still in operation. As anyone with a little techno-savvy will know, a few years of negligence won't put a proper Mechanicus-crafted security system out of commission.

I sat there for a while, as was my custom, looking at the Zone. I had taken shelter underneath a section of broken rockrete that protruded from a gaping pit in the ground. A number of heavy shells had landed here, years ago, creating a swathe of chaotic terrain that provided me with a vantage point of the outer defences.

I knew of other observation points, but most of them were higher up and more distant. This one was close and personal. The buildings loomed over me. I could practically reach out and touch the outer layer of fragwire.

The weather was taking a turn for the worse. A particularily foul wind came screaming down from the Mastari mountains, carrying with it a mixture of rain and snow. This particular combination of wind and precipitation was the worst sort; guaranteed to get you wet, cold, and shivering in no time.

I was glad I'd taken shelter. Out of the wind and driving sleet it wasn't so bad once I put up the hood of my oilskin cape. The garment was of a type favoured by the lakeshore fishermen. It was a couple of sizes too big, but that just meant I could easily fit everything I carried underneath. As far as clothing went it was definitively my favourite piece.

I knew there was a way in. I was sure of it. There was always a way in. In fact I'd crept through the zone on more than one occasion, back when it was fully operational. Granted, I hadn't tried getting into the actual hospital facility, but it just went to show that getting in is always possible. Indeed, my very life and continued existence was proof that if you were clever, you could always get in - and away afterwards.

Static defences have one big weakness - they are static. Given time and ingenuity an attacker can always defeat them. I had both. I had, however, lacked the desire to make an attempt. I had figured it wasn't worth it, that the abandoned facility would hold little of value. It hadn't been abandoned in a rush, but gradually closed down. The Imperials would have emptied it before closing shop. The Imperials are nothing, if not thorough. Or so I had kept telling myself. That reasoning was still sound, but it no longer mattered. The challenge of getting in was what mattered now.

Indifference turned into resolve. I put my mind to work. The way in through the outer perimeter I already knew. Actually I knew at of least three safe paths, plus a couple I hadn't tried. The next challenge was the inner perimeter. I hadn't gone through it, but I had a plan in my head I knew should work. But I hadn't actually tested it, since any miscalculation on my part would inevitably end in my death.

I tucked my heavy woollen shirt inside my too-large fatigue pants, tightened my belt a notch to keep it in place, went through the plan in my head one final time, and proceeded forward.

The weather favoured me greatly. The wind and driving sleet combined with the remnants of today's fog to eliminate any chance of me being picked up by pure visuals. Even preysights and auspexes would have trouble spotting the heat signature or movement trace of a small boy through all that cold interference.

I got through the outer perimeter with no trouble at all. I just moved along one of my pre-plotted routes, found the hole in the fence under a few inches of snow, quickly dug myself a passage, and slipped inside.

I moved a distance to the penetration point I had decided upon earlier. I hadn't been inside for several years, so I was a bit anxious. Had things changed during my absence? When I got close enough to actually see, I could breathe a sigh of relief. Everything was just the way I remembered it.

Except for the snow. There wasn't a whole lot of it, but there was enough both on the ground and flying through the air to make spotting my markers nigh impossible. The prudent thing would have been to turn back, but I kept going, trusting in my memory and my instincts.

It was a close call; I was picked up by a sentry-servitor, but my movement was a hairsbreadth outside it search area. It didn't fire. Which was a good thing since it was manning a multilas - and unlike Roberto's weapon this cannon was jacked straight into the facility's power generator, effectively giving it an unlimited ammo supply.

Inside the inner perimeter lay several buildings. Most of them had belonged to a Thiran hospital. Saint Paedalus' Mercy Hospital, if I remembered correctly; there were no signs anymore, just a stark facade of stone and shuttered windows. Supposedly it had been a very good hospital, catering to the rich and powerful of the entire region. I had never gone there before the war. My family made do with the more modest medical services provided to us by Father's workplace.

The buildings had all been made physically secure. Barred windows and closed-off doorways limited access to just a few points of entry. Those access points would be guarded, and thus out of my reach.

I had to find something the enginseers had missed - or make my own entrance. I couldn't well climb up. That would leave me too exposed. So I figured I had to go down.

A quick search revealed a storm drain. The drain pipes would be well guarded from outside intrusion, but now that I was already inside the inner perimeter...it was worth a try.

The metal grate covering the drain had been point-welded shut, but I figured my new grenade would crack it open for me. A waste of a good grenade perhaps, but my blood was up. I set the grenade, popped the primer and took cover. There was a loud bang and the cover broke open.

I rushed over.

Damn! The opening was too narrow. I pulled, but the grate was stuck on ruined hinges.

Somewhere in the distance is could hear the sounds of a heavy portal crashing open. The facility wasn't completely without defenders. Roving murder sentries were being deployed to investigate the explosion. Twice damn.

I pulled with all my scrawny might. The grate didn't budge even one millimetre.

I could hear the murder servitors approaching, their clawed metal feet scraping the icy rockrete with every step.

I had only seconds more to live. With a singular focus brought about by my imminent termination I willed the grate to open. It tore right of at the hinges and I tossed it casually aside, twenty kilos of metal feeling practically weightless in my hand.

I quickly snaked inside the waiting drain pipe. I could hear the servitors halting just outside. Fortunately such models aren't particularly clever; out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.

My elated mood was quickly dispelled. I slipped on the wet surface and went sailing down the drainage pipe. I could easily touch the sides of the metal pipe, but despite my best efforts I couldn't bring myself to a halt. Friction wasn't on my team that day.

The narrow pipe quickly emptied into a bigger one. There was more traction here, but I was disoriented and in the dark, and could not find any purchase. Then I banged my head on something and all rational thought fled my brain. I became a screaming lump of meat frantically clawing at metal, even as I hurtled towards my doom.

Wintertime meant precipitation in Thira. Usually in the form of cold rain, but sleet or even snow wasn't unknown. Lately there had been quite a bit of every category falling out of the sky. This proved most fortunate, as the water helped cushion my fall. Had my sojourn taken place during the dry summer season, I would have fallen eight meters onto the dry, waiting rockrete. The fall would have left me crippled. I would have died a slow, lonesome, and painful death down there. Instead there was a big splash that left me soaked and cold.

I thrashed around for a spell, completely panicked. When finally I realized the water was only a little over waist deep I stopped screaming and started to feel around for somewhere dry. It was pitch black, so I couldn't see anything, but eventually I located a ledge well above the water level.

Once I got myself out of the water, I collapsed on the wet rockrete and started laughing. I laughed so hard I think I may have cracked a rib in the process. Or maybe it was already cracked, and my heaving laughter just antagonized the already damaged bone. Point is that, next to taking another person's life, there is nothing quite as exhilarating as narrowly cheating death yourself.

My laughter quickly faded though, as reality grabbed at my skinny pre-teen body. With death staved off for the moment, I started shivering with cold. With numb fingers I got a compact Malfian-made torch out of my satchel and turned it on. With light to guide me I quickly got my bearings. I was in a large cistern that was part of the storm-drain system of Thira. I located a ladder and managed to get into one of the larger utility tunnels; a tunnel I felt would connect to a sub-basement somewhere.

I felt a slight tingle of elation, but that too quickly faded. By now I wasn't just shivering with cold, I was shaking uncontrollably. I could barely hold on to the torch, let alone think rationally. I just knew deep down that I had to keep moving, or die. Not of brutal impact injuries, but of the inevitable deep slumber that follows on the heels of hypothermia.

After thirty minutes of shivering in the dark, with nothing but the torchlight to guide me, I found my prize. A door, clearly labelled as leading into the hospital, sub-level three.

Someone had taken care to spray-paint the stylized 'I' of the Inquisition in blood red across the face of the door. Below the symbol was a short warning in High Gothic: Prohibitum accessum per preceptum Ordo Hereticus. The spelling wasn't quite one hundred percent, but the message was clear enough. Whatever lay beyond the door was forbidden, by order of the Ordo Hereticus. I was too cold to be properly intimidated by the ominous symbol.

In hindsight I found the lack of grammatical knowledge to be a bit on the comic side. When the children of your enemies know your own language better than you do, to what end do you fight? The answer is, of course, that soldiers don't much care. They just follow orders and fight whomever they are told to fight. And if asked to spell something they will try as best they can, and never worry much about the niceties of grammar and syntax. Only the learned waste their time on the purely academic.

Right then and there I cared even less for the grammar than the man who had misspelled the words. I gave to door an appraising look under the white sheen of the torchlight. It didn't look like it had any additional Imperial or Inquisitorial security, just the standard type of Protasian access control: A simple numeric keypad with an attached lock-scanner.

I guessed whomever had marked the door hadn't expected anyone to come this way, ever again. We were well inside the security perimeters, so he'd marked the door as off-limits, closed up, and never looked back.

My own lock - had I still carried it - wouldn't have helped. It would not have held the necessary permissions since I wasn't a hospital worker or maintenance personnel. Nor did I have the keypad combination for that matter.

I was stuck.

I slumped down in front of the door. For a while I sat there, shivering violently, with nothing but cold, artificial torchlight, and my own dark thoughts to keep me company. I could feel every cut and bruise my body had sustained over the course of this ill-conceived adventure. I should never have come.

I could not go back. I could not go forward. I had no way out of this trap. If I remained here much longer I would fall asleep, never to wake again.

No! I hadn't cheated death just to be claimed so soon.

I willed myself to get back up again. It was a monumental task just to make my legs obey. I stripped down to bare skin. I wrung my clothes as best I could. They were still wet, but no longer dripping. I dressed anew, but this time only in my wet wools.

Two pairs of woollen socks. A pair of tightfitting, long underpants, and my heavy woollen shirt with the carved bone buttons. I pulled my oilskin cape over the top. The wool would keep me warm, even when wet, as long as I kept moving. The cape would serve to limit the flow of air, thereby allowing the wool to work its magic.

My boots were soaked through and through. I drained them as best I could, and sighed heavily. Now the grease would only make them dry up slower. But I had nothing else, so they would have to suffice. I retrieved a couple of self-heating pads from my satchel, put one inside each boot, and wiggled my feet back inside. It was a tight fit with wet socks, even with the boots normally being two sizes too big for me.

I could feel the pads' heat starting to seep into the wet coldness around my feet. It wouldn't last forever, but right now it felt like sticking my feet into the hot sand of a sun kissed beach.

The rest of my soaked rags I threw aside. If - when - I got out of this, I would find something else to wear.

I started jumping around to warm myself. I got a foil-wrap packet of compacted biscuits from my satchel. A staple of many IG ration packs. Tasteless and bone dry, but nutritious. I had an endless supply of cold water to wash it down with. A candy bar rounded out my lunch.

I stopped jumping and regarded the door. In between mouthfuls of sweet syrupy stickiness, I tried the handle again. It was firmly locked.

I pulled harder. The door handle tore lose. I stood there looking at handle for a while. Part of my mind no doubt recognized the source of newfound strength, but the rest of my mind effectively supressed such damning knowledge. I had more enough problems already. Turning out to be an emerging latent psyker was out of the question.

I finished the candy bar, grabbed onto the edge of the door with both hands, and willed it to open. Nothing happened. I tried again, tapping into my deep reservoirs of anger and anguish.

The door and the doorframe both came away. A gaping rockrete opening beckoned me forward. I dropped the ruined metal into the gutter behind me. It shattered the layer of ice that had formed, showering me with a spray of icy water and semi-frozen slush.

It barely registered. Somewhere deep inside a fire burned. I was twelve, and for the first time in my life psychic energies were suffusing my entire being.


	44. CHAPTER 34 - HOLY GROUND

You interrupt the playback. "That scene certainly brought home some of my earlier questions."

Haxtes waits for you to elaborate.

"Protasian screening of potential psykers leaves something to be desired," you continue. "Out of a family of five, three were unregistered psykers, unless your brother and father should be included as well?"

Haxtes smacks his lips. "Father was quite mundane, as far as I know, although I suppose nothing can be ruled out. He could - theoretically - have been a carrier of recessive psi-genes. Or he could have been a latent psyker, yet to bloom. Mayhap his cortex implants interfered with the development of his psychic abilities. I do not believe any of these scenarios to be the case, but I have no concrete evidence to back it up with."

You wait for him finish.

"My brother Jax was rigorously tested, with no trace of psychic potential found. As for Mother, her abilities were entirely passive, and weak enough to pass the screening tests. Eta grad I'll wager. Same with my sister. That time with Jax was the first time she actively manifested anything. I think she was as surprised as me and Jax combined. As for myself...I was too young to have been tested before the bombs fell."

"I'm not convinced," you say, "explain all you want, but it smells of sloppiness on part of the Imperial Commander. And the Arbitrators should have been there to pick up the slack."

Haxtes agrees to disagree. "You know as well as I do that these tests aren't completely accurate. Quite a few unlucky non-psykers are taken away just to be on the safe side, but some latent psykers still slip through. The Imperium doesn't mind, not as long as the quota is met, and none of the slip-ups end up as daemon-possessed rogues. Which we both know isn't all that likely to happen."

"At the rate you were going it's a miracle you didn't attract otherworldly attention," you counter sourly.

Haxtes laughs at that. "Or maybe I did? Maybe I had my very own ancestor spirit watching over me the whole time? My dead witch-whore of a mother perhaps? Or maybe it was the God-Emperor himself. Or one of the daemons of Chaos? It's notoriously difficult to tell such entities apart."

You know he's trying to annoy you, but still you cannot let this go unanswered. "Don't. Don't go there. Just don't."

Haxtes raises an eyebrow. "You mean don't disparage Him on Earth, don't take His name in vain, and all that?"

"Yes," you say flatly. "I know you seek to unsettle me, but this method doesn't work. It just makes me angry, makes me even less likely to listen to what you have to say. But I'm long past being a slave to my emotions, so whatever you're playing at simply won't work."

The eyebrow drops back to neutral position. "That's not it at all Marcus. I've nothing but the utmost respect and adoration for the God-Emperor of Mankind. I've served him with all my being, for more years than most men live. I've killed for him more times than I can count." He gives you a very solemn look. "So don't come here all young and cocky and tell me I 'disparage' the Master of Mankind."

Typical of Haxtes. Trying to worm his way out, by explaining away that which is painfully obvious. "Then what's with the attitude?"

Haxtes grins. "First of all, I don't like you, Marcus. I really don't. You're an annoying sort to begin with. Plus you shouldn't be here at all. There is no point trying to pretend otherwise. So I think that entitles me to fuck with your mind to my heart's content."

He raises his hand to stop you from interrupting him.

"Secondly this is who I am. In life I didn't talk much, not compared to a certain Vern anyway. And I definitely wasn't very good at small talk. I kept wanting to talk about the important stuff, which many people find unsettling. Nor was I particular polite, except when it was to my benefit. And as I said, you've done nothing to make me want to be polite."

You sense there is more here. "Go on," you urge, "you've already covered the fact that you don't like me."

Haxtes is still grinning. "I'm trying to show you who I am, what I am, but you're not listening. I'm opening my soul to you, and all you do is stand in judgement. But you're not the one who will judge me. Only the God-Emperor can do that. So what about you listen more and judge less? If you don't, there is very real chance you'll miss more of the really important stuff."

You shake your head. "A cute explanation, but no. I simply do not trust anything you say at this point. But for the sake of improved relations I shall reserve judgment for later. In return you will try to remain civil when it comes to Him."

Haxtes' grin widens. "Agreed!" he says, with unusual enthusiasm.

You cannot help feeling that you were somehow lured into this exchange. But to what purpose?

Haxtes returns to the topic. "Whether or not something or someone actually watched over me is a question that cannot ever be answered. I've pondered it many times, and have come to various conclusions. Ultimately it does not matter." He pulls back his sleeve to show the electoo-brand of a sanctioned Primaris psyker. "Eventually I was picked up by the Inquisition and thoroughly screened. You know how anal they are about Warp taint, moral deviance, bodily corruption, and whatnot. Whatever the reason for my good fortune, I passed all their tests." Dramatic pause. "How is that for a miracle Marcus?"

You don't answer, but will the playback to resume.

I was inside. Currently three levels below the surface, within the warren of corridors, rooms, and access ways that made up the invisible underworld of the hospital complex. I was pretty certain that sub-level three was the lowermost point, seeing as how it connected to the drainage system. The rest of the layout I was less sure of. Due to our fucked-up reliance on the grid and our locks, there was preciously little in the way of signs or floor plans to guide me.

Despite any navigational challenges I may have had, I felt rather confident. I was inside the inner security perimeter. That was the important part. During actual operations the inside of the place would have been swarming with staff and security troopers. But not now. The facility had been abandoned years ago. Interior security measures would be at a minimum. Locked doors? Certainly. Roving patrols of black-clad storm troopers? Not so much.

I started out very carefully, just to be on the safe side. I had no idea how paranoid the security staff had been. I mean, the inside of the buildings could be filled with additional countermeasures. Traps. Roving sentries. Gun servitors. I wasn't in a rush. I could take my sweet time. Besides, this was by far the most exciting thing to happen since, well, since ever. It even made me forget my soaked clothes, my hurts, and my bruises.

My concerns proved largely unfounded. There were no more active security measures now that I was inside. There were clear signs that a substantial amount of security equipment had been removed as part of the moving out process. That didn't mean I had a free reign of the place, however. There were a lot of locked doors barring my way. In other places corridors and doorways had been welded shut or otherwise permanently barred. I supposed it had been done to zone up the hospital building. To what end I couldn't tell.

I did not attempt to repeat my door-ripping feat. Instead I roamed the sub-levels for a while, getting a feel for the place. After ten or so minutes I located some bags of hospital uniforms. They seemed fresh, or close enough, so I peeled of my wools and dressed in a mixture of plain whites and sterile greens. Even the women's 'extra small' sizes were a bit on the big side. I rummaged a little more and managed to locate some disposable slippers. They felt impossibly warm and welcoming when I put them on. They would serve quite nicely inside the hospital. I must have looked like a complete douche, but I was dry and therefore content.

I was reluctant to let my wools and boots go. I ended up making an improvised sling bag from my oilskin jacket to carry them in - I needed my satchel free for all the loot I was hoping to find.

I resumed my search for loot. The more I moved around, the more at ease I felt. Only problem was the lack of valuable, easy to move stuff. As I feared, the place had been cleaned rather thoroughly before it was closed down. Many of the rooms had been stripped bare, leaving no trace as to their original function. Other rooms and corridors were crammed full of hospital gear - beds and other furniture, strange-looking machines, and other paraphernalia - none of which I could reasonably lug around.

Eventually I managed to reach an unlocked stairwell by way of the male nurses' locker rooms. The machine spirit of the stairwell's auto-locks was clearly unsettled, preventing them from engaging properly. It tried again and again; I could hear the locking bolts snapping into place, but immediately they would disengage, followed by the sad wail of the machine spirit trying to alert a tech-priest to its plight. No one responded. There hadn't been a simple enginseer around for years.

I pondered this new development for a spell. I made my decision and moved through the door and into the stairwell. As I went I uttered a short prayer to the Deus Mechanicus in thanks for this unexpected boon. Maybe Jons was right, maybe there was a piece of God in every machine. Even if not, there was no harm in paying my respects to the Machine God.

The stairwell enabled me to gain access to sub-levels one and two, but unfortunately it didn't connect to the surface or any kind of topside building. I had nothing better to do, so I kept going. With two new levels to explore I figured I would find something of value eventually.

After an hour or so prowling the complex I finally found an interesting site. In what must have been an improvised barracks on sub-level one, I found a lasgun leaned against the wall. The lasgun was a standard M36, with a scope attached. Nothing like the Eye, but decent enough for ordinary rifle work. The charge reader said sixty, so than meant a full mag, or close to it. I didn't recognize the mark of the charge pack, so I wasn't sure how many rounds it could hold. Some packs held sixty rounds, others as many as one hundred. It didn't matter, sixty shots was plenty. And there was bound to be a standard charge port somewhere I could use to refill the power pack.

Some poor schmuck must have left his gun behind when the vacated the premises. I wondered what kind of punishment he had received; according to the Uplifting Primer it was a shooting offence to abandon your weapon if deployed to a warzone. The punishment was less harsh if you lost it during training or transit for example. I slung my newfound rifle across my back, and didn't think more of it.

Not far from the rifle I hit my jackpot: A cellulose box brimming with Imperial ration packs. There were thirteen packs. All of them read 'Meal No. 131, Faux beef and mixed vegetable stew'. One of my favourites, as far as Imperial rations went. My spirits soared to unprecedented heights. I hadn't found this much in one place for years. And I was certain there was more here. Enough to make me rich. Relatively speaking.

I considered popping one of the ration packs right away, but I was still kind of full after my improvised crackers-and-icy-water lunch. A normal person would have taken the opportunity to feast a little, but I was a small, scrawny kid. I was used to having little to eat. And what little I had, I often needed to scrape out over too many meals. After a while of not eating it becomes a habit that is very hard to break. I packed as many rations as I could back inside the box, tied it closed with a piece of string, and put the rest of the packs in my satchel.

After the dual discovery, I tried to figure out how to get back into the hospital for more plunder at a later date. With a start I realized I didn't even know how to get out. The way I had come in was definitely out of the question. I was pretty sure that going out on the ground level - or above - would get me killed in the blink of an eye. I would have to find another exit point. But until I did, I was effectively trapped inside the subterranean complex.

I spent another couple of hours exploring the place, primarily looking for a way out. I found some odds and ends that I added to my satchel, but there were no more hauls like the lasgun or the rations. Eventually I ran out of space to explore: I found further progress barred by locked doors and other barriers.

As an experiment I tried to work my way around these obstacles by using the lasgun to take out a door. It worked well enough on my first attempt; I deftly shot out the lock with three lasrounds, and proceeded to pry the door open with my hands while the locking mechanism was still in a molten state.

That got me access to a trio of badly lit rooms on the second sub-level. At first glance the rooms contained nothing of interest or value. The first room reeked of chemicals and old smoke. Three large fan hoods dominated the room, each crowning a metal workstation of some sort. There was a heavy duty sink at each work station. All three sinks were filled with ash and scraps of burnt cellulose sheets.

Having nothing better to do, I leafed through the contents of the sinks, looking for something readable. Our old country house outside of Thira had two fireplaces. I had used cellulose scraps to get the fires going on many occasions. I knew that if you shoved in too many densely compacted cellulose sheets, they would not burn properly all the way through to the centre.

Lo and behold, by carefully brushing away the top layers I found a stack of sheets that hadn't been completely destroyed. It was a transcription of an old astropathic message. It appeared to pertain to the start of the war.

_### Astropathic Message Transcription ### _

_# Header # _

_Date-Time-Stamp: 5.099.815.M41 _

_Transmission Priority Level: Maximus _

_Transmitter: Astropath Elixis Suburis, Attending Astropath, His Divine Majesty's Colony Protasia/Durusus Marches Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus _

_Conduits: Ordo Xenos Monitoring Station {classified}, Imperial Navy Watch Station Epsilon-Foxtrot-Gamma-113 _

_Receptor: Malfian Astropathic Chorus, His Divine Majesty's Colony Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus _

_From: General Bracchus Eiden, Commanding Officer, Protasian Delegation, Protasia/Drusus Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus _

_To: Malfian High Command, Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus _

_Security Clearance Level: Vermillion-1 _

_Subject: Protasian Declaration of Independence _

_# Message begins # _

_All Praise the Immortal Emperor, for without his guidance we are nothing STOP The Senate of the People of Protasia denies our rightful demands STOP Senate despatched a courier for Terra to request intervention by the High Lords STOP When fired upon Protasian defence grid returned fire resulting in the destruction of {classified} with all hands STOP The {classified} Guard detachment accompanying the delegation is currently besieged by Protasian PDF STOP If they attack I aestimate we can hold out for no more than {classified} hours STOP Assume general rebellion to follow STOP Request orders and support from Sub-sector STOP Blessed are we who have known the Emperor's Light STOP General Bracchus Eiden {authority signature encrypted} END _

_# Message ends # _

_{authentication string encrypted} _

_### Transmission ends ### _

I carefully pulled at the sheet. I managed to get it loose, but as soon as I turned it over it broke into a myriad fragments. The sheet underneath was badly stained and partially burned. I could barely make out the words in the glare of my torch. The top was too messed up to read, but the main body was - barely - readable.

_Transmitter: Astropath Senioris Teushmann, Lord Astropath, His Divine Majesty's Colony Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus _

_Conduits: Imperial Navy Watch Station Epsilon-Foxtrot-Gamma-113, Ordo Xenos Monitoring Station {classified} _

_Receptor: Unknown (reception unconfirmed) _

_From: Lord-Marshal Maxim Maximus, Chief of Staff, Malfian High Command, Malfi/Malfian Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus _

_To: Commanding Officer, Protasian Delegation, Protasia/Durusus Marches Sub-sector/Calixis Sector/Segmentum Obscurus _

_Security Clearance Level: Vermillion-1 _

_Subject: Protasian Declaration of Independence _

_# Message begins # _

_The sin of failure will damn even the most pious of men STOP Protasia has been declared heretical and is considered to be at war with the Imperium of Man STOP Inform them that they are to surrender unconditionally without further delay or face military sanction STOP Arrest all Senate members and associates STOP They are enemies of the Lord of Man and are to be taken into custody pending public execution STOP {Classified] elements of Battlefleet Calixis en-route STOP Ground assets approximating {classified} Guard Divisions embarked STOP Cursed are... _

The bottom part of the sheet was as badly messed up as the top, but judging from the other message I wasn't missing out on anything important.

I tried to separate this second sheet as I had the first, but the fire had turned the cellulose into a brittle, near-ash state. It broke apart, as did the semi-intact sheet underneath. I was able to piece together part of the message though; it was a third astropathic transcript, dated a while later, screaming for more ships and men. Signed one Maxim Maximus.

This was all very good, but reading about war and politics wasn't very high on my list of interesting stuff to do before I died, so I decided to move on. The second room was barren, save for several rows of metal filing cabinets that had been pushed up against the far wall. It looked like whoever had cleaned out the place had moved the cabinets from their usual locations, over to the wall once they had been emptied.

I pondered the existence of physical files. It felt so primitive, yet also so simple and effective. Thinking about the current state of Protasia and the Grid made physical filing sound like a viable option. With a few dedicated savants to run the archive, it would be just as good as a cogitator-run system, with none of the drawbacks.

I rummaged through the cabinets, but found them utterly empty, save a single page made of very fine cellulose. It had gotten stuck between two interior separators, and thus escaped notice. Judging by the labelling it was the fifth and last page of a five-page docket. It was a list of sorts, with names, aliases, and filing references to about two dozen suspected Protasians insurgents. All but three of the names had a notation in the 'Status' column indicating they had been killed or captured.

Three things caught my attention. Firstly it was an Inquisition document, stamped and approved with great bureaucratic panache. Secondly the document bore the name of a real Inquisitor. Attending Inquisitor, Globus Vaarak, it said in High Gothic. I was no more - or less - familiar with the Holy Ordos than any other citizen. Meaning the name invoked the usual mix of mystery, awe, and irrational dread in me. But seeing the name of a real, living Inquisitor that had been here, on my planet, in my city - I was genuinely impressed.

Last, but not least, there was a familiar name on that list. In the second to last position it read: Preacher Maxentius. In the column to the right of the name two aliases were listed: Preacher Molevoch and Mr. Galatas. There was a question mark in parentheses behind that second name; a suspected, but unconfirmed alias. They had left out Killer of Whores, but I was sure this Maxentius was the same person who had ordered my mother killed. But why had the Inquisition kept a file on him? Torturing and killing women wasn't very nice, but it hardly constituted a grand heresy.

It then occurred to me that the Inquisition probably kept files not only on known heretics, but also on anyone that they thought might possibly become a heretic, however slim the chances.

Preacher Maxentius was one of the names listed as a 'Deceased'. They got that part right, at least. Someone with a very bad hand-writing had scribbled Heretic: Missionaria Galaxia Renegade in the 'Notes' column. The Galaxia reference had been struck out with a different kind of marker. That same marker had in turn been used to write Heretic: Possible Deacon of the Word in parenthesis. I knew what a heretic was, of course, in a general sense at least. I didn't know anything about any deacons or words though, except for that time I'd overheard Sarge and Jons talk about a Word of Light.

Judging by the many file references scribbled in the final 'References' column, there was a whole dossier on the man. Whoever this Inquisitor Vaarak was, he'd thought Maxentius important enough to gather information about him. Had the dossier been burned or removed? I had no way of telling. I shrugged and put it out of my mind. Any heresy was no concern of mine: Mother was dead and avenged, the Guardsmen had left, the Preacher long dead, and the Inquisition gone. I considered taking the docket page with me, but I knew nothing good would come of it, so I left it where I had found it.

In the innermost room there was another metal door, one that I was certain connected to an auxiliary stairwell. I lacked a decent floor plan, so I could not be sure, but I was hoping the stairs would lead up into one of the surface buildings. I used use the lasgun again, but this time I was out of luck. The lock melted all right, but I couldn't pry the door open. Either the door itself had warped, or it had been blocked in some fashion from the other side. I could have kept blasting away, but my instincts told me it was futile.


	45. CHAPTER 35 - SECURITY BREACH

"So," you say, "the Forbidden Zone housed an Inquisition field station. I thought as much."

"Of course it did," Haxtes say in the flat voice you've become so accustomed to, "you saw the security setup when first I snuck through. Who else has the resources to do something like that?"

"Few, if any," you reply, putting emphasis on 'if any'.

"But as a kid I didn't have the necessary references to put together two and two. If I had, I would have stayed well clear of the place." Haxtes takes a sip of amasec, before playfully adding, "I think".

"The sedition of an entire world," you pick up the thread, "would automatically warrant an Inquisitorial investigation."

"But why Thira?" Haxtes asks rhetorically. "I've no good explanation, except it was a pretty important regional capital. And the Inquisition would have known it was not on the strategic targets list." He shrugs. "If it was a hotbed of heretical activity, I'd be surprised. But like before, I can't really rule out anything."

You have to agree with Haxtes assessment. "I think you've drawn the right conclusions. They had to set up shop somewhere, and Thira must have looked like a good place. I'm sure it wasn't the only such site either; there would have been more."

"I'm sure there were more," Haxtes concurs, "but we need to get back to mine."

"One more thing," you interject. "This Word of Light you mentioned; I think I may have heard of it."

"As long as you're not a follower," Haxtes says jokingly.

You give him a stern look in return. "The Word of Light is a vile perversion of the Imperial Creed, replacing faith in the glorious God-Emperor with the perverse powers of Chaos."

Haxtes shrugs. "Something like that. But I had no way of knowing that at the time."

You're about to say something, when Vern's voice suddenly appears to interrupt the conversation. "Actually the Word of Light is a charismatic Chaos cult found in many places throughout the Imperium. Each cult is led by a Deacon of Faith - what passes for their high priests - many of whom pass of their sorcerous talents as miracles of faith and the like."

"That I didn't know," you admit.

Vern provides you with more information, whether you want it or not. "Congregations of the faithful are, unlike many other Chaos cults, very secretive and therefore hard to spot. Congregations are forbidden from having contact each other, making it nigh impossible for the Inquisition to infiltrate or eliminate the organization as a whole."

He pauses to see if you have anything to add, but quickly resumes, preventing you from replying. He does get eager at times!

"On the surface," Vern continues, "it is as you say; the Word is a variant of the Imperial Creed. Converts are introduced to the 'True Gods' gradually, as not to scare them away. By the time the truth is revealed, their minds have already been turned - or sorcery is used to subdue those who prove reluctant to accept the 'truth'."

"If the Inquisitor in attendance knew any of this, he would have acted promptly," you reply.

"He did," Haxtes supplies. "Who do you think put pressure on the Imperial Guard to deal with the Kiones? Who do you think told them that heresy must not be allowed to spread again? The Inquisitor in attendance, Globus Vaarak."

"What most people do not realize is that the Word of Light is an apocalyptic cult," Vern resumes. "On the surface it looks rather benign, for a Chaos cult. There is a little sacrifice, but not too much to be a burden. There is obedience to the Deacon, but that's common fare for any Imperial citizen. If you look deeper, however, things change. The Word promises a Second Coming of the Prophet of Light, when all the Brethren shall rise up and set the galaxy on fire. But until that day the deacons are to keep their congregations safe and sound, and not do anything to attract attention."

"And this cult was active in Thira?" you ask. "This Maxentius was a Deacon of Light?"

Vern turns to look as Haxtes before replying "This is the first time I've ever heard mention of a Deacon in Thira. Haxtes, why have you never mentioned this to me before? If the Inquisition suspected the presence of the Word on Protasia - it could have been the real cause for the invasion!"

Haxtes mouth becomes a grim line. "I never mentioned it because I never felt like mentioning it." He half rises from his seat. "Now be gone Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos, I need answer to no man, least of all you!"

Vern bows deeply. "Your will, my master," he says, before retreating into the darkness beyond the circle of light

Knowing that I was trespassing on the Inquisition's holy ground made me realize it was time to pack up and get going. I wouldn't say I was afraid, but I definitely had the feeling that my time was up.

Having pretty much covered the sub-levels - at least those portions accessible to me - I knew I wouldn't find a viable exit down there. Going above ground presented its own challenges, more specifically the automated defences, but I was left with no real choices. I had only a vague idea of what awaited me, and determined to deal with problems as they presented themselves.

I retracted my steps a distance, until I came to a room where I had spotted some surgical supplies. During my last pass, in among scalpels and whatnot, I had spotted a large meat hook. What a thing like that was doing in a hospital I didn't know - brought there by the Inquisition most likely. It had been worse than worthless to me before, just a length of heavy metal, but now I figured I could use it like a crowbar.

With my makeshift crowbar in hand I went back again, to the barred door in the innermost room. I gave the lock another couple of lasrounds, and then shot out the triple hinges as well. I started working the crowbar around the edges of the door. It took a while, without psychic aid I wasn't the strongest kid in town, but eventually I got it cracked open. Not all the way open, just a gap along one edge.

Peering through the gap I could see the door was barred from the other side. A couple of metal rods had been welded across the face of the door, pinning it to the frame. I pushed the lasgun barrel through the crack I'd made and fired at the rods a few times, until they snapped. With the aid of the meat hook I was now able to pry the door sufficiently open to squeeze through. I was very careful not to touch any of the semi-molten metal my lasfire had created.

I was going up the stairwell to the ground level when it spotted me. A servo-skull, hovering deathly silent in mid-air. It was considerably bigger than the CAS drones Jons had deployed as scouts. It was also armed; the barrel of a compact, but very lethal, bolt weapon protruded from between its metal jaws. The stylized 'I' of the Inquisition was worked into its burnished, golden forehead.

Before I had a chance to react, it had painted me with a ruby red targeting beam, projected from its right eye. I was a sitting duck in its sights. The servoskull fired. I threw up my hands. The bolts blew up just a few centimetres from my skin. Spontaneous release of my psychic powers had once again saved my bacon.

I was off balance, and the force of the exploding munitions was sufficient to send me tumbling backwards down the stairs. I hurt like hell for days, but my fall was a godsend. Had I not fallen I would have died in that stairwell: Immediately following that first burst of bolter fire, the servoskull self-destructed by blowing up its ammo storage. It must have had a final subroutine in case it encountered a telekine it couldn't handle.

When the ringing in my head finally subsided I slowly got back up on my feet. Just in time to hear powerful claxons going off; the loud noise provoked another dizzy spell and some dry heaving. I had trouble standing up straight.

The claxons were interrupted by a mechanical voice blearing: "Facility has been breached. Rogue psykers within the perimeter. Terminate with extreme prejudice."

Rogue psykers and terminate with extreme prejudice; that would be me, I realized.

"Initiating final containment protocol," the voice continued, before the claxons resumed. I didn't like the sound of finality contained within that warning.

I knew I had to get the fuck away, and quickly. Unfortunately I had no idea how I might accomplish that. So I started running. Up the stairs, as fast as my wobbly feet allowed. I always run when things get too thick. Like I always say; it's better to run away and try again, that stand and die.

In between remaining Inquisition security measures, and plain locked doors and barred windows, my options were limited. I was forced up and up, all the way past the twentieth floor of the main hospital building. I eventually found myself at the very top of the stairs, staring into a door I knew must lead onto the roof. Not exactly an ideal escape route, but I had nothing else.

I dealt with the door the same way I had the others; some lasgun rounds, followed by the meat hook for leverage. I got the door pried open. I stuck my head through and looked out at the wide open expanse of the hospital roof. The landing platform immediately caught my eye. I could see something parked on it, partially hidden underneath a canopy of polymer-canvas.

I ran, low and fast, hoping against hope that there were no gun servitors covering the roof. Ducking under the canvas I found my prize: A sleek-looking hopper. It was a local Protasian model, but some Imperial enginseer had ripped out the original locking mechanisms and authentication systems, and replaced them with crude Imperial designs.

That tinkering proved to be a godsend - without the Grid and a functioning lock, I wouldn't have been able to get to hopper to run in its original configuration. With only this simple, mechanical fix to contend with, I definitely had a shot. I jumped inside and shut the door after me. The key was dangling from the overhead console. I grabbed it, rammed it home, and twisted it to the 'Initiate' position. Maybe there was a little praying involved. You know, to the usual suspects; the Machine God, the God-Emperor, the Saints and the Ancestor-Spirits, and whomever else might be listening.

The hopper came to life, powered by an external connection. Looking over the status board I saw that it was fully charged and fuelled. It must have sat there, waiting for me for two years, alone and unwanted. The last time I had ridden in a hopper I was eight. Father had shown me the controls and such, and let me play around a bit, but I wasn't exactly a qualified operator. With determination born of desperation I managed to get both the grav coils and the rotors online and running.

Then I waited.

"You waited?" you ask. "What for?"

"For an opportune moment," Haxtes replies. "You remember those two perimeters, with the gun servitors and all that? If I tried to run I wouldn't get fifty meters before I was shot down. It had nothing to do with my lack of flying skills. An ace Lightning pilot would have gotten no further. No, I had to wait. Wait for something to happen. Wait for the final containment protocol to fire."

"How could you know?" you press him.

"I think we'll just call it precognition. Or divine inspiration. Or the overconfidence of youth. You pick one."

Fifteen minutes after the warning had been issued the implosion bomb went off below the compound. Fifteen minutes. Long enough for any key personnel, such as an Inquisitor and his closest aides, to evacuate. Perhaps using the very hopper I was now sitting in.

As the implosion effect started to suck everything inwards, I punched the throttle wide open and whispered a prayer to my ancestors and the God-Emperor and whatever saints presided over mad hopper flights. I shot out like a bullet, a fraction too fast for the bomb to suck me back in. The servitor-turrets fired at me, but with reality being compressed into a microscopic point they had trouble tracking me properly. They winged the hopper, but didn't terminate it. I tried as best I could to keep flying, but the hopper was a lost cause. The machine came down a few blocks away.

I crawled out of the rubble, battered but alive. I stood there lamely and looked at where the Forbidden Zone had been; nothing remained. There was a big hole in the ground, like someone had scooped away all the earth and hidden it somewhere else. I slung my stuff across one shoulder and hurried away before my shenanigans attracted other watchers.

"And this Inquisition facility, what was it used for? With the benefit of hindsight guiding your answer?" you ask.

Haxtes answers. "One would guess that it was used for processing heretics, for searching for answers, for looking at the cause behind Protasia's heresies."

"And this would warrant the installation of a massive implosion device? Sounds a bit excessive to me. And the self-destructing servo-skull - at the first sight of a small boy?" you make sure you tone reflects your doubts.

Haxtes speaks in a dead, weary tone. "The base was mothballed, but not dismantled. It's standard operating procedure to leave a final protocol option for such installations. And I may have been small, but I was a rogue psyker rummaging around inside three layers of automated defences. You know how paranoid the Inquisition is when it comes to rogue psykers."

"Verrigan," you say, "he didn't make his move until the base had been decommissioned. That is interesting."

Haxtes gives you an approving look. Or at least you think its approval. With him it's hard to tell.

"Never mind," you say, "just continue."


	46. CHAPTER 36 - THE COLD MARKET

After having - just barely - survived my little expedition into the Forbidden Zone, I headed back to one of my hideouts. I needed to rest and recover. I'd sustained no serious injuries, but I was cold, exhausted, and generally beat up. I also needed to get out of the stupid hospital clothes, and into something warmer and more appropriate.

It was in the middle of the night before I was able to finally wring out of my hospital uniform - now completely soaked and caked with dirt - and get into my sleeping bag. I made no attempt to get a fire going. You had to be very careful to avoid observation. But I did heat some water on the portastove to make myself a hot drink. I also had some more biscuits and half a tin of too sweet, canned fruit.

As I sat there in the dark, I pondered my bad fortune. I had felt so fortunate, so exhilarated during my sojourn. The excitement of near death experiences, of adrenaline highs, of exploring the forbidden, of subconsciously toying with the powers of my mind, of riches waiting to be plundered.

I had been lucky to get out alive of course. Lucky to have gotten inside in the first place. Lucky the servo-skull hadn't killed me. Lucky, lucky, lucky. But the overall feeling was still one of disappointment. I had been high as a kite, but bad fortune had made me crash and burn. I was bruised and battered, cold and worn out. All that trouble - and so little to show for it. I had held great riches in my hands, but failed to bring them with me in my haste to get away. I thought of the grenade I had expended to get in. I wished I had thrown it at the patrol instead. It would also have been a waste, but it would have felt better than this.

I sat there for a while, hating the world like I hadn't hated it for quite a while. I hadn't really felt anything of late. It felt good, hating something again. I decided to do it more often.

Then I came to think of the boy. The one who had painted the slogans at the base of the statue of the God-Emperor. The one the Vaxanites had dealt with. His fortune was even worse than mine. He too had gone ahead and done something rash, like I had with the facility. He had died. I had lived.

Nothing like good old hate - and the misfortune of others - to cheer up a fellow who is down on his luck. I fell asleep with a smile on my lips

By the time I woke up it was well past noon. The weather had improved considerably. The day was grey and cloudy, but there was little wind and no precipitation. I was stiff and sore after sleeping on the cold, hard floor of my hideout. I stretched a little, took a good piss, had a couple of sip of water from my hip-slung IG-issue canteen, and took stock of what was left to me.

I still had the lasgun; I had carried it slung across my back when the servo-skull ambushed me, and hadn't had the clarity of mind to dump it. A quick system check showed that the gun itself was fully operational. Only twelve rounds left in the charge pack. Immaterial. The pack could be recharged - or replaced. The sight, however, was ruined. I had managed to land on top of it - a very painful bruise on my back testified to the fact - and something had broken inside. It didn't look broken, but when I peered through the ocular piece there was something wrong with how it magnified and marked the target point. Damn. I should have done what Jons had shown me; kept the gun sight safe in a padded pouch.

I whispered a few soothing words to the sight's machine spirit, before testing it anew. No improvement. A tech-priest might be able to fix it, but not me. I detached the sight from the lasgun - the gun wouldn't be as accurate, but I could still fire the weapon just fine with iron sights alone. I regarded the broken sight for a moment. I was reluctant to throw something away that might retain some value to the right buyer, so I ended up setting it aside.

The big box of ration packs was gone, dropped during my backwards tumble in the stairwell and forgotten in my haste to get away. Apart from the lasgun that left only my satchel. I emptied it on the ground.

I tallied four ration packs. The box of rations I had found had been overflowing, so I had removed four units to enable me to shut the lid. I had stripped the contents of the rations out of the waxed cellulose boxes to save space, and stuck them inside my satchel. My mood lifted a fraction; four packs, easily twelve days of sustenance.

I had managed to get hold of eleven whole vials from a broken medicine cabinet. Three of them I knew what were; they had the green cap of some form of stimulant. The other eight vials had complicated names printed on their labels. I had no idea what they were. But Himilco, the Cold Market's self-styled apothecary, would know.

There were some other odds and ends in there as well; including a rather nice pair of surgical scissors I imagined would fetch a good price, a fistful of sterile bandages, a data-slate of Protasian manufacture that was either broken or just out of power, and a couple of other things not worth mentioning.

I stopped tallying. It wasn't that bad a haul. If I didn't think about what I hadn't been able to bring, I could be content. I stuffed everything back into my satchel and got up. I'd swing by a couple of my stash places, drop off most of the loot, and then head for the market. Carrying too much stuff to market was a sure way of getting ripped off - or killed. Getting murdered over a few ration packs really would make this a crappy day.

The Cold Market - our name for the most important black market in Thira - was located off the old Esplanade. It was less than two klicks from the building we had so valiantly defended against the Kiones insurgents three years prior. There hadn't been any reconstruction in this sector yet, but it was still located inside the perimeter of the settlement zone, which made it an ideal place for people to meet and exchange goods and services.

Our Vaxanite masters supported the existence of the market. They were none too particular about who they traded with or with what. Freemen - ranging from loners like me, to representatives of survivalist groups - could come here to trade without fear of molestation. As long as we brought something of value to the market's masters, we were welcome. We rubbed shoulders with a variety of types. Protasian slaves, come on their owners' behalf to buy, sell, or spy. Merchants from other regions, such as there were, hawking their wares. Reclamators offered up the bits and pieces they had dug out of the ruins of Thira. There were even some off-worlders come to profit from the plight of Protasia; ranging from Chartist Captains engaged in a little smuggling, via Kasballica-sponsored opportunist, to bona fide Rogue Traders.

I really, really didn't like the place. Generally speaking there were far too many people around, none of them with good intentions, and far too few places to hide. More specifically I had my share of personal bad experience with the place. When I was about ten, I had been attacked by a mob of older boys, beaten and robbed of everything, my clothes included.

I guess I should have been grateful they didn't kill me or rape my scrawny ass, but at the time I hadn't felt particularly lucky. It had been in the middle of a cold spell and I had been naked, starved, and injured. I had come down with a terrible cold that had left me more dead than alive. Somehow I had pulled through and regained my strength. It was also the last time I was seriously ill, so maybe the experience hardened my immune system in some way.

I was more careful after that, but I was still just one, scrawny boy. I was shaken down a couple of times more, but since I never went to market carrying much, I avoided losing my entire fortune again. Once it became know that I didn't carry my fortune with me, I was allowed to pass after paying a token 'market toll'.

Eventually I became a familiar face and built myself a network of connections. I was the silent boy that always seemed to find some of the good stuff. Not a whole lot of it, but enough to keep me an interesting man to do business with. That made me much less of a target, but going to market was never entirely safe.

But regardless of my misgivings on my part I was forced to come here from time to time, to exchange what I had scavenged or stolen, for stuff I actually needed. Medicines, nutrient supplements, purification tablets, fuel pellets, assorted odds and ends I couldn't find or steal.

"This Cold Market," you ask, "does it have any connection to the Cold Trade?" thinking of the network of smugglers and scoundrels that engage in trade with forbidden merchandise, some of it of xenos manufacture.

Haxtes nods. "Aye, it did at that. But only in a very general sense. You could, if you had the means, purchase just about anything in the Cold Market. Expensive things from off-world even. Black market weapons. Exotic drugs. Trained harem slaves - of both genders. You named your vice and flashed the Gelt, and the Market provided."

"I thought as much," you say. "The Cold Trade likes to set roots when markets are young. It's easier to maintain a foothold if you're there from the beginning."

"Much like heresy," Haxtes says grimly.

"And where did you come across these vials, young Master?" Himilco asked me.

"I found them in an abandoned hospital," I replied honestly. "They had fallen out of a cabinet and rolled under some furnishing."

Himilco sorted out three of the vials. "These there are useless then. They must be kept refrigerated or the medicine loses potency rather quickly."

I nodded solemnly. I had thought that might be the case. Better than expected, though. I had feared at least half the vials would be useless.

"The stimms I can pay you for in gelt; there is always a hard demand for those."

I could also have use for them myself, I thought, but said nothing. I knew from experience Himilco would offer more than I could reasonably turn down. I'd kept one for myself. It would have to suffice.

"The rest are harder to resell. My master would be displeased with me is I tie up too much of his money in my medicine cabinet. I can either offer you a trade in goods or part of the profit when - or if - I'm able to sell them on."

"Half and half," I replied. "Give me half the combined value in the blue weed and the other half you can pay me as you sell it."

Himilco chuckled, "You drive a hard bargain Master Haxtes...but since you always bring me good items and act civilized I shall say yes. Against my better judgement I hasten to add."

We shook hands to seal the deal.

He counted out three Thrones for each stimm and handed me a small opaque bag of the blue weed.

"If you must inhale this poison I'm glad you keep to the blue," the old apothecary said, voice filled with disdain.

I returned him one of my false smiles. "I don't hate my life nearly enough to try anything stronger."

"That's what you're saying now. What happens next year, or the years after?" He shook his head. "Too well do I know where that path leads; at first it is only the blue lho weed, but sooner or later you sit there with the obscura pipe clutched between twisted fingers."

I didn't want to argue with the old slave. Instead I began deftly rolling myself a lho stick from the fragrant blue. "You mind?" I asked out of feigned politeness.

Himilco threw up his hands. "Feel free. It's your life. End it however you want."

After that we didn't argue anymore. He continued with his work, I just stuck around doing nothing. He'd gossip from time to time, I would say nothing. Such was our relationship, the old slave apothecary and the young freeman. Familiar enough to feel safe, distant enough not to be threatening.


	47. CHAPTER 37 - RITE OF PASSAGE

I left the Cold Market without incident and retrieved my stash. Halfway on my way back through the Shadow Blocks - a badly ruined swathe of town shunned by rebels and Vaxanites alike, not far from where my mother had been strung up - I came across another scavenger. I had seen her from time to time, but I didn't know her by name. She was probably a little older than me, two or three years maybe, but not much taller. Her lithe body had turned thin and sickly since the last time I saw her. Her lustrous blond hair had lost its sheen and was caked with dirt and grime.

I found a good, sheltered spot not too far away. I set down the lasgun to avoid looking too intimidating. I retrieved a ration pack from my overstuffed satchel and clamped hard on the self-heater. A couple of minutes later I was eating hot stew. 'Meal No. 131, Faux beef and mixed vegetable stew' the pack said. Like I said, it was one of my favourites. Surprisingly savoury for a soldier's ration.

As anticipated she had followed me. Probably plotting how to kill me and steal my things. I made it clear she had been seen and gestured for her to join me. She did so only reluctantly. You didn't survive for years out here in the Shadow Blocks without being distrustful.

"Here," I said and put the food container on the ground.

She moved forward and grabbed it, then scampered back a few paces. I watched her scrape out the last of the food from the container.

"Here," I said again, and threw her a packet of biscuits to go with the faux beef and mixed vegetables. "They are dry and taste like dust, but food is food. If you dip them in the stew they don't taste so bad."

She caught the pack in mid-air, ripped it open and started chewing on the bone dry biscuits. Predictable it made her moth drier than a desert. I offered her a bit of water to help her swallow. After that she alternated between dipping the biscuits in the food and drinking from my canteen.

She didn't speak the whole time.

When she was done I got my kit, grabbed the rifle, and moved out, heading for one of my hideouts.

I took it slow.

She followed me.

I let her.

The hideout wasn't much; just a safe place to rest out of the weather. I had several places just like it. I didn't stash anything of importance there. My loot I kept divided between several hidden caches. I also had three spots I used for longer stays. I had more stuff there, but I was careful not to keep all my eggs in one basket.

Having only one place and then having it emptied by someone else while I was out would be catastrophic. Just like that time in the Cold Market when I was robbed blind, only without the beating.

I let the poor girl have the candy bar from the opened ration pack. That convinced her that my intentions were good. Kids and candy. What a potent combination.

Afterwards she went down on her knees.

I smiled an uncertain smile at her, made uncomfortable by the close proximity to another human being. But victory demands sacrifice they say, so I endured her closeness.

She smiled back, trying to reassure me. The smile made me feel nauseous. Smiles invariably meant treachery was imminent.

I let a narrow blade of surgical steel slide down my sleeve and into my right palm. One item from the hospital I'd kept for myself.

She reached for my belt.

I grabbed her hair with my left hand and cut her a new smile. Jugular blood gushed forth, covering my blade and right hand. I held her until her eyes glazed over. It didn't take long.

I searched through her meagre belongings and added them to my own stash. Then I curled up and fell asleep.

It had been a good day.

The scene leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth. "And here you claimed no moral taint...you sound awfully like a sociopath to me Haxtes."

"Calling me names again, Marcus? Believe me; you've seen nothing yet." His laugh is contrite. "Seriously, what did you expect? That we'd become friends? That I keep her around the house and feed her in return for housekeeping and sexual favours? Slap her around a bit to keep her docile, like the Vaxanites did their women? Start pimping her in the market for weed gelt? Is that what you would have done, Interrogator Marcus?"

"I...no, but you didn't have to murder her. Let alone enjoy murdering her. You could have given her the slip, I know you could."

"Of course I could. But I'm not a good man Marcus, never claimed to be. I'm a good killer. That's why the Inquisition took me in; because of my affinity for killing, not because of my piety or altruistic nature. I did kill her. I even enjoyed killing her. The warmth of her blood on my hands and the look in her eyes as her soul left the body. Better by far than the screams of dying Kiones. To me it was like water to a thirsting man."

You've no reply to this; Haxtes isn't just a killer, he's death-cult material.

"Anyway...I was twelve and not at all...awakened. That thing between men and women...it didn't exist for me. Never the most sociable kid to begin with, I was now adamantly refusing to get close to anyone. I even killed my brother's dog, remember?"

"Yes," you reply curtly, "I remember quite well."

"We're not so different you and I Marcus...that's what I've been trying to show you. We are both tools. Loyal servants unto death and so forth. Killers if we have to be."

"I get the point," you say, "but we are not at all alike Haxtes. Your bloodthirst set us worlds apart. I will kill in the line of duty, but I do not kill for sport or because it pleases me in other ways."

"A separation of degree, not kind. I've tried to show you who I am, how I became me. My affinity for death and killing is one of the things you have to understand before you'll be shown the deeper mysteries. But we'll let the matter rest for now."

You nod in agreement. This Haxtes is even colder and more dangerous than you previously thought. If you show weakness, or waver in your determination, he has the power to hurt you, perhaps even kill if you're fully immersed. You must be more careful in the future.


	48. CHAPTER 38 - THE SHADOW OF THIRA

Winter dragged on, stubbornly refusing to turn into spring. It was the same as every year since the war. I had heard it had to do with soot in the atmosphere or some such. From all the bombs and the burning cities. I didn't care. Bad weather was like a friend to me.

I was twelve and a half years old. A man grown by some standards. By my own reckoning I had become a man when I killed the girl whose name I never learned. It was one of the defining moments in my life. Even more so than the betrayals of my family. More than becoming alone by slaying Nix.

It changed me, turning me from lost child into...something different, something savagely independent and bloodthirsty. It wasn't the first time I had killed, but it was the first time I had killed for me. Before this I had killed for others, killed for vengeance. The girl I had killed because I wanted to, because I could.

The death of the girl transformed me in another way as well: Before my change I was content with mere survival. But to survive was no longer sufficient. I craved more from life. I craved blood. I craved death.

So I became a predator. I stalked the ruins of Thira, looking for human prey. Vaxanite or Protasian, it mattered not. Thirteen men, women, and children, all told, taken throughout the long dark months of winter.

I could have killed many more. With my new rifle - even sans the optical sight - I could have killed scores. But shooting people held no pleasure for me. It had to be up close and personal, had to be bloody bladework. Me, the surgeon's blade, and a major artery. I had to look them in the eyes as they died, had to dip my right hand in their blood as their soul's light faded. It was the only way for me to endure what remained of my own life.

After the first few murders they started making up stories about me. I became the Shadow of Thira, a terrible daemon stalking the ruins of the fallen city. They were not far off the mark. My legend grew with every passing day. Many more deaths that I was responsible for were blamed on this daemon. Still, it was no mean feat to be noticed in the hell-hole that was Skull-taker Verrigan's city!

My friend Himilco was the only person to realize I was the killer. I could see it in his eyes the last time I decided to visit the Cold Market. I'd murdered half a dozen by then - and been attributed with many more.

We greeted each other the same way we always did, with a nod and a few words. Our eyes met, and I knew he knew. And he knew that I knew that he knew. And so forth, ad infinitum. I also knew he would never rat on me; that too was apparent from the look in his eyes.

But our equilibrium had been upset by my transformation. It was time for us to part ways. We didn't say our goodbyes the traditional way. Instead he gave me the free run of the place while he, for the first time as far as I knew, partook in some of the blue weed. I took with me a lot of choice drugs and equipment.

When I was done I slashed the old man up a bit; good enough to be convincing, but not so much as to be life-threatening. Then I overturned a cabinet and generally made quite the ruckus. Next I quickly made my way to the shadows by the stairs leading up to the second floor.

Himilco's owner, a former sub-officer with the Vaxanide 112th, came downstairs to check what all the fuss was about. As he neared the bottom of the stairs I cut the hamstrings on his left leg, quick as a snake. He screamed and crashed into the floor at the base of the stairs. I could have cut his throat as easy as you cut a pie, but I didn't. Instead I pretended to be startled by the blood-drenched apothecary feebly trying to come to his master's aid. I grabbed my loot and jumped out the window. My debt to Himilco had been settled.

I cannot say if it was gratitude out of being saved - or mortal fear of being attacked again - but the apothecary was released from bondage shortly thereafter. He was proclaimed a free man, and adopted into the household of his former master. Himilco continued to serve the crippled shop-owner quite diligently; until the poor man succumbed a while later to a wasting illness no one could diagnose or cure. I had no doubts as to the cause of this illness. Old Himilco knew a thing or two about poisons and toxic substances; such is almost inevitable, even for the most honourable of apothecaries. The dead man had bequeathed his meagre estate to his former slave; young Protasian wife included. It was quite the romantic tale.

That same winter the insurgents gained in power and secured several important victories over Verrigan's lackeys. I later learned that a Rogue Trader had supplied the Protasians with arms and other equipment. The price he charged was steep indeed.

Verrigan responded by making life even worse for the surviving Protasians, which only galvanized the rebels. Trouble started spreading to other towns and nearby districts. Finally Verrigan was forced to turn off-world for aid. The price he paid to the Veiled Hand was even steeper than the insurgents had paid the Rogue Trader.

"The Veiled Hand?" you ask.

"A group of death-cult assassins, operating out of Malfi. Quite infamous in their heyday," Haxtes replies. "I would know. I was one of them."

"I've never heard them mentioned," you reply.

"You wouldn't have. Not unless you dug through the Tricorn's archives on Scintilla. The Veiled Hand was designated Excommunicate Traitoris and thoroughly purged."

"A death-cult that had overstepped its bounds. Not entirely unheard off, but to earn the final sanction...they must have done something special?" it's only half question.

Haxtes makes as dismissive gesture. "Indeed. Goes with the territory I'd say. Play with death all day long, and chances are that someone will cross the line. The line between useful little Imperial assassins and blood-crazed cult fanatics can be damned hard to see when it's been drowned in blood. It happened to the Veiled Hand. And before that it happened to the Astral Knives."

You're passingly familiar with that name. "The Astral Knives. That was another death-cult. One branch of an entire tree of close-knit groups of voidborn. I've had dealings with one of its descendant cults myself."

"Lucky you," Haxtes says. "Then you should know what I'm referring to." He pauses for a moment. "We'll return to the Veiled Hand later on. Let's finish with Thira."

I moved quickly across a mountain of rubble, keeping as low a profile as possible without needlessly sacrificing speed. I had come this way many times before, and knew the place well enough to navigate without much light to go by.

I ducked underneath a slab of fallen rockrete, wormed my way through a hidden crack, slid half a dozen meters through a broken ventilation pipe, and crawled on my belly through a fissure in the outer wall of the fallen highrise.

Safely inside I hid and waited, motionless and silent. Whatever hunted me was the size of an adult. It could not follow me along that route. But it might have allies, such as ratling servants or techno-constructs.

My brief time with Jons had shown me a glimpse of the wonders the Mechanicus could produce. And lo and behold, before long I could hear the almost inaudible hum of micro-fans - a dull grey reconnaissance servo-skull slowly floated into view.

It made a quick survey of its immediate surroundings and finding no trace of its prey activated an active auspex array. Sweeping arcs of greenish light spilled across the ruined room, searching and probing. Finding nothing it deployed a sonic resonance scanner to search for hidden prey.

I brought up my sliver pistol - the very one Jons had given me; I'd never gotten the opportunity to return it - and fired a single shot before the drone had time to report back its findings. The bullet hit spot on, punched through the thin layer of titanium-tungsten carbide that covered its internal structure, and made short work of the tiny man-machine cortex inside.

There was a deep thumping sound followed by a rush of heat and dust coming out of the fissure in the wall. Breaching charge. Possibly melta. Horus be damned! I had hoped to lose my pursuer, but now the hunt was on again. Damned be all the Primarchs!

I briefly considered lying in ambush, but decided against it. I ran for the hoist shafts. A wise choice; behind me a couple of stun and photonic grenades went off. Had I stayed I would have been incapacitated. Easy prey for whoever was coming down through the widened breach.

I slipped though the half-closed access doors and stepped to the right, grabbing hold of the utility ladder I knew was there. I half scrambled, half dropped until I reached the sixth floor; that was as far as the shaft was traversable.

I got out into the corridor, resumed running.

Mocking laughter.

Not far behind. Damn him and his anti-grav drop harness. Damn him to the Eye and back!

The bastard had been after me for hours. He was one of the foreign predators, I was sure. One day I was on top of the food chain. The next the ruins of Thira were home to unknown men and women that were every bit as skilled as I was. Only far bigger and much better equipped.

They were methodically going through the ruins, killing all those they came across. Verrigan's assassin had come to deal with the rebels, once and for all. The only way to be sure was to kill anyone not firmly under the First Minister's control.

And now the turn had come for me to die.

I wasn't sure how he'd picked me up initially, but at the time I was blaming the nameless dead girl. She had somehow compromised my cover. I didn't know how, but I was sure of it. Alternatively it could be that Jax was still alive and that he had cracked under pressure and ratted on me. Or maybe Jons and my sister were helping Verrigan out.

"None of that makes any sense whatsoever," you object. "This is pure paranoia."

Haxtes. "I tell the story as I lived it," he scratches his beard, "not with the benefit of psych-analytics and moral debriefings. So yes, it didn't really make any sense, but to me it was real enough." He stops scratching. "And besides, that paranoia had served me well for several years. Sort of hard to let it go."

I sensed movement to my right and rear, just on the other side of a tattered opaque polymer curtain. This part of the building had been under refurbishment when the war came. Needless to say the work was never completed.

With nothing to win by running, I switched to a more offensive mode. I moved across the intervening space without a sound, my monoedge Guard bayonet reverse-gripped in my left, and my trusted sliver pistol in an overlapping right-hand grip.

As my enemy picked me up through his preysight goggles I dived and rolled. Even as I dove I heard a burst of strange projectiles whispering past overhead. I came up in a crouch, my target fat in my sights. No psychics were required to hit. He was just three steps away. I pulled the trigger.

The gun failed to fire. The only thing I could think of was Jons warning me against offending the spirit of the weapon. I had failed badly in that department. I hadn't said the words of ritual cleansing for ages, nor observed the rites of reloading. What that why the pistol had failed me now? Was the Machine God real after all?

"I'll wager it was neither. He was using a haywire charge or jinx generator, wasn't he?" you ask.

You get a wide grin in return. "Of course he was Marcus. No real assassin would rely on luck or the Machine God to secure his mark."

A well-placed kick to my genitals put me out of action. It would have been worse if I had been older. As it were it was bad enough to momentarily paralyze me and double me over. His next blow caught me on my left temple. It sent me face down into the floor, stunned. Before I could recover, my hands were restrained behind my back and a self-constricting sack of black material was pulled over my head.

I tried to struggle, tried to break free, but I was helpless. The muzzle of a gun was pressed into the small of my back. I'll never forget the pain of those toxic crystal slivers boring into my flesh. I screamed for hours. Half of it screams of agony, the other half of wounded pride. The Shadow of Thira had been brought low.

"He didn't kill you, who would have guessed?" you say sardonically. "The only thing I'd like to know is. Why not? And not another Jons-like story please."

"Curious? Good. Interrogators should always be curious. Goes with the territory," Haxtes replies, "at least it used to be like that when I was an Interrogator."

"So you made it to Interrogator rank then? I'm mildly surprised. Trained killers have their uses, but they rarely rise through the ranks. They are used until they are broken or no longer hungry. Then they are discarded."

Haxtes continues calmly. "Yes, I made it to Interrogator rank. At the tender age of twenty-six. Not the youngest ever to be promoted to Interrogator, but younger than you were Marcus."

You find that hard to believe and see no reason not to make your feelings known. "The Calixis Sector is provincial...but I find your claim to be less than plausible."

Haxtes. "You're not getting any more sneak peeks into the future. For now content yourself with this: It was not wholly undeserved. I clawed my way up the ladder with every fibre of my being. There was no fault with my dedication or the execution of my assignments. It also involved back-room deals, bribes - and no small amount of threats." A wide predatory grin spreads across his face. "But however you look at it: I was made Interrogator, and the Calixian Conclave accepted and affirmed my rank."

"We'll leave your claim hanging there for now," you counter. "Now back to the story."

The predatory smile turns into a wickedly playful grin, worthy of a Rogue Trader. "I wasn't killed because I was part of the payment. The Veiled Hand was handsomely compensated in Thrones and war booty. But there was another clause in their contract; they were allowed to claim any Protasian civilian under the age of fourteen."

"Recruits?" you ask.

"Recruits," Haxtes confirms.

"So that's how you ended up a trained assassin?" you ask.

"That's how I ended up a trained assassin," Haxtes confirms. "But let's not play this particular game. Let me do the talking or we'll never be done here."

He takes a deep breath. "What about you take your mid-day break now, and when you get back I'll tell you about my time with the Veiled Hand? I don't want you all worn out and irritable like you were yesterday. I'll even promise not to try and choke you."

"Agreed," you say and sever the connection.


	49. INTERLUDE - THE FATE OF THE HERETIC

Brother-Epistolary Kaminsky slowly unclasped his helmet. The seal disengaged with an almost inaudible hiss. He lifted the helmet clear of his clean-shaven and heavily electooed head. Equally deliberately he slowly fastened the helmet to an attachment point, before turning his head to look down upon the red-armoured form of Sister-Palatine Salinaria.

From experience he knew that humans had an easier time interacting with him if he pretended to look at them. At least as long as he kept his helmet on: He knew that most of them found his hideously burn-scarred, eye-less face unsettling, if not downright frightening. Not even the Release could restore his eyes - they were beyond destroyed, and no power, save that of the Warp, could remake them.

Shortly after Kaminsky was - permanently - seconded to the Deathwatch, Inquisitor Soldevan had taken a minute to explain it to him. It wasn't the scars as such; it was the overwhelming feeling of being watched by a blind man that unsettled the weak minded. It was the same with common astropaths, but in Kaminsky's' case the unease was compounded by the fact that he was a towering giant of a killing machine, wreathed in techno-arcane power armour.

Salinaria wasn't that easily intimidated, however. She faced him, without flinching. Good. She might not be Astartes, but at least she had a spine.

She took the time to remove her own helmet, revealing the woman inside the power armour to be quite attractive, if somewhat stern-faced. "Brother-Epistolary, we are most pleased to have you along," Salinaria said, "but I assure you: we can handle this group, without the aid of the Deathwatch."

"It's not the entire Deathwatch that aids you, Sister Salt," Kaminsky said with great gravity, using the Low Gothic name of her birth. "It is only I. Speaking of which; I hardly need the Adeptus Sororitas to help me exterminate a group of cultist rabble."

Sister-Palatine Salinaria gave him a faint smile in return. Smiles. It was not a facial expression he was very familiar with. He knew - in theory - what the basic true smile conveyed: Happiness, contentment, that sort of thing. But there were so many variations of smiles, some of which meant entirely different things. False smiles. Smiles put there to encourage or deceive.

Kaminsky never smiled, true or false. Some Astartes did, but the Librarian had no need for such. If he needed to make his emotions known, he would simply project them into the mind of whoever needed to know. And if he had need to learn the emotional state of another, he would just read their aura and know.

Sister Salinaria's smile was of the false kind. She meant for it to disarm him, to put him at ease, to make him more receptive of her line of reasoning. He put his rebuke squarely into her mind. She staggered back a half step, but quickly recovered. She was strong of will this one.

"I apologise, Lord Kaminsky," she said, sounding entirely unconvincing, "but that is exactly what we wish to avoid. We need to take a few of them alive, for questioning. Prelate Zhukov's orders."

"Your Prelate is a very foolish man, Sister. The time for subterfuge and questioning is long past us. The Ecclesiarchy has failed miserably here in Thira. You assured the Holy Ordos that this place was free of taint, no?"

Salinaria was about to correct him, but decided against it. Pointing out that the Inquisition had failed just as badly would only aggravate the situation.

"The brave men of the Imperial Guard," Kaminsky continued, "scoured this world clean of rebels a mere handful of years ago. I would know, my brother Astartes of the Storm Wardens and the Tigers Argent were here, fighting alongside them. Despite the techno-horrors unleashed against the Emperor's servants, the Imperium prevailed. All your precious Ministorum had to do was purge the taint of unbelief from this place."

"My Lord, I..." Salinaria tried to interrupt.

Kaminsky cut her off. "But look at it now; it is a hotbed of dissent, a place of growing heresy. They call the God-Emperor false, and call out to the fell powers of the Warp to aid them. You'd think the Adeptus Ministorum hadn't been here to shepherd these people at all. But that's not the case, is it?" he continue, the anger in his voice completely unfeigned. "Prelate Zhukov has had great resources at his disposal, yet the heresies only grow in strength, don't they?"

"These Protasian, Sire, they are..."

"Don't delude yourself, Sister Salinaria," Kaminsky axed her objections before she could fully voice them. "It's not the Protasians; the majority of them have had their pride stomped out of them. The problem is the settlers, the former Vaxanite Guardsmen in particular. They were given a wonderful boon by the God-Emperor, and look at how they squandered it." He made a gesture to indicate the ruined cityscape of Thira. "They've turned this paradise into a godless cesspool of corruption."

"That is not..." Salinaria tried once more.

"Not what Zhukov is saying to your Canoness? How shocking. For your information: Inquisitor Soldevan has been authorized by the Conclave to look into the moral integrity of the Prelate. That is how highly his efforts are being appreciated back on Scintilla. And believe me; my Soldevan is nothing like your Inquisitor Vaarak."

He saw realization dawn inside her mind. Now she realized why he was here. Not to accompany and support her battle sisters, but to evaluate their worth and purity.

"I see you understand. Good," Kaminsky said, making his mouth into that of a snarling beast. "We will purge the enemy. All of them. No prisoners." He let his command sink in, before adding. "I would hate for you to be purged unnecessarily. Perform to my satisfaction, and I will make the fact known to the Inquisitor. He is harsh, but he does not destroy indiscriminately. He will not order your execution if you prove true," he said, looking her straight into her minds' eye.

"As you wish, my Lord," Salinaria said, backing away to join the thirty or so sisters currently under her command. Inside she bristled, however. Kaminsky could feel her resentment. He could also feel her doubts. She'd been here, in Thira, during the initial purges. She knew they had erred. Yet still she remained loyal, even when she knew her superiors were wrong. He couldn't help but feel a degree of sympathy for her; was not his own chapter guilty of the same type of sin?

The first of the enemy squads had entered the perimeter. Ten men. All, or at least most of them, former Guardsmen. Professional, if a little rusty. They were confident past the point of overconfidence; not surprising, given the unholy zeal that had taken root in their hearts.

Kaminsky took half a second to evaluate the situation, his mind effortlessly and subconsciously interfacing with the armoured suit's machine spirit to calculate the positions, movement vectors, weapons loadouts, and threat ratings of his targets.

Had his battle-brothers been with him he would have attacked from high ground, spreading his men on either side of the thoroughfare, to create a murderous enfilade. Sisters of Battle had a reputation as skilled warriors, but until they had proven their loyalties, he wasn't going to put himself in a position where he had to rely on them.

Without warning he sprang up, planted his right foot squarely on top of the low wall that ringed the flat roof, and leapt forward into empty air. Ten stories of rockrete flashed past in no time at all. A handful of meters before slamming into the ground he released a blast of telekinetic force. It served two purposes; it slowed down his descent, allowing him to do a controlled landing without recourse to a jump pack, and it sent half a squad of heretics hurtling into the air, the bodies twisted and broken by the blast.

The remaining heretics were slow to respond, their minds struggling to get to grips with this sudden assault. Kaminsky was not so encumbered by human limitations. He leapt into the air, his movements hugely amplified by the suit of powered armour he wore. Mobility, not protection - that was the true wonder Astartes powered armour offered.

Kaminsky shot one of the enemy soldiers in the torso while still airborne. His opponent's chest exploded in a rain of blood and gore. He landed on top of another one. Four hundred of kilos of marine and nearly a ton of ceramite armour smashed into frail human flesh with unrelenting force. The man was dead before Kaminsky's armoured feet touched the crumbling rockrete.

His next target had managed to get into cover. Kaminsky willed his bolt pistol to switch from single fire, standard mass-reactive fusing, to full automatic, proximity airburst. Neural signals leapt from his mind and into the armour he wore by way of the interface ports drilled into his spine. The machine spirit housed within his Mark VII Aquila suit instantly translated his wishes into machine language and transmitted it to the bolt pistol. In responds the weapon spat out four rocket-assisted rounds. They detonated in a perfectly coordinated saturation pattern, right on top of the heretic. He wasn't blown apart as much as he was shredded by a hundred tiny fragmentation slivers. One less enemy of the Imperium to worry about.

The final pair of enemies - whatever passed for the squad's sergeant and a squaddie armed with a flamer - had managed to recover sufficiently to try to oppose him. The sergeant screamed for the flamer man to hose the space marine. Kaminsky was having none of that. He grabbed hold of the man's confused mind. His level of mental resistance was pathetic. Kaminsky crushed it, like he would an offending insect, and then forced the panicked soldier to change targets.

The sergeant screamed again, an inhuman scream of fear and agony as the promethium flames washed over him. He became a human torch, his sins burned away by the cleansing flame. A single bolt pistol shot ruptured the flamer's fuel tank, turning the operator into a raging bonfire. To die by fire, such is the fate of the heretic.

He made contact with Sister-Palatine Salinaria's mind even as he replaced his half-spent bolter magazine with a fresh one.

"Very impressive, Librarian," she spoke into his mind, "but those were just the vanguard. What about the rest of them?"

"You will move one of your squads across the thoroughfare, to establish an enfilading position," Kaminsky replied telepathically, overlaying his unspoken words with a visual impression of his plan. "The second squad will be the other half of the trap. The last squad will act as a mobile reserve. You will hold you fire until I have drawn the enemy well into our trap."

He deliberately used the word 'our' to strengthen the bond between them. Few humans could resist the pull of warrior fraternity, when offered by one of the Angels of Death, humanity's supreme killers.

He could feel her start to object; that he was but one against the multitude of the enemy. What could one man, even one such as he, do against so many? But she did not protest out loud. Instead she indicated agreement, and did as she was bid. Good, a small step in the right direction. And he was not human; he was beyond human, he was Astartes, one of the God-Emperor's Angels of Death.

Down on the ground Kaminsky took up an easily visible position, ringed by the enemy dead. With the promethium fires still raging the enemy would soon be here. On a whim he hacked off the head of a couple of troopers and hung them from his belt. He was probably overdoing it, but the heretics weren't exactly subtle and would probably respond favourably to this gesture.

He could feel his humours starting to rise as he waited for the enemy to come. Soon the pent-up hatred he held for the enemies of Mankind would be unleashed. Soon the divine light would scour the heretics, just like it had scoured those wretched genestealers on that fateful day in the Jericho Reach.

What a day that had turned out to be. It had marked the beginning of his liberation from the weakness of the flesh. Brother-Epistolary Kaminsky needed no eyes to see. And without his eyes to hold him back, his psychic power had multiplied, until he was the strongest psyker his Chapter had seen in a very long time indeed.

He began chanting, softly at first, but more strongly with every repetition of the age old litany of the Space Marines:

_What is your Duty? To serve Emperor's Will. _

_What is Emperor's Will? That we fight and die. _

_What is Death? It is our duty. _

_What is your Duty? ..._


	50. PART 4 - THE HAND

_My faith is blood, my sacrament is death._

- Anon


	51. CHAPTER 39 - A LONG LUNCH

The connection is terminated. You instruct the motionless lectern-servitor to remain behind with the tome; you'll be returning for a second session later today, so there is no need to have the book returned to storage. You turn and leave the cybernetic servant alone in the camber, with only the trio of silently floating servo-skulls for company. The doors seal firmly shut behind you. They will not open without your gene-sequence, passkey, and clearance codes.

The Haxtes persona is getting to you. It's not a rational thing. You know that he's just a shadow of a long-dead killer. You know he's been put there for a reason; to guard the tome. You know he is just playing his part. But still he's getting to you.

It's not that he's a murderous bastard - he's guilty as charged on both counts - because that kind of person you can work with if need be. You're no saint yourself for that matter. You have killed many times in the line of duty. Most have been heretics - or guilty by association or negligence - but not all. A few innocents - if there is such a thing - have died along the way. Some as pure collateral, others to be sure the cancerous heresy had been well and truly cut out. When dealing with heresy it is always better to be absolutely certain, rather than have it surge up again at a later date - ten times stronger than before.

No doubt you will kill again. And no doubt more innocents will die by your hands - or by your command. Not to mention the choices you will be called upon to make, once you become an Inquisitor in your own right. But you do what you do because you follow a higher calling. Because you believe in the guiding light of the God-Emperor. Because you know it is for the betterment of Mankind. The lives of heretics are already forfeit in the eyes of the Master of Mankind. For the innocents their deaths were not in vain; they will be judged lightly by Him, for they died serving the Imperium after a fashion.

No, it's not the killings. It's Haxtes' flippant attitude towards the God-Emperor, the Imperium, and the Holy Work that gets to you. His blatant abuse of his own position for personal gain; he's practically bragged about it one more than one occasion. Those things get to you. It demeans the service. It dishonours the tireless labours of the Inquisition. That's what's getting to you. He can try all he wants to talk his way out of it, but you will never accept his shallow excuses. There are no excuses good enough to ever warrant disparaging the Saviour Emperor or abusing the holy power the Inquisition wields.

Admittedly your dislike of Haxtes is also coloured by the challenges posed by the tome itself. You are not used to being challenged mentally and psychically like this. In matters of the mind it is usually you that have the upper hand. This situation where you have to remain in telepathic contact with an artefact that constantly tries to confound, confront, and manipulate you on multiple levels is highly unusual.

You supress a small chuckle. What was it he called you? 'Prodigal interrogator'? Yes, that's it. Well, the prodigal interrogator has to admit that he's grown proud and haughty - almost like a Protasian. There is a lesson to be learned here: You better take care or you'll end up with too many enemies, all plotting against you in the shadows, while you remain haughtily ignorant, blinded by your own sense of superiority.

You follow the narrow winding stairs up to the twelfth level of the inverted pyramid, passing through the Portal of Infinite Secrets, the security check-point leading down into the final tier. Two of the gold-cloaks are on guard duty at the top of the stairs. You note the personal force-field generator each man carries. Psi-ward, power weapons, personal shields - no expense has been spared to keep the Librarium secure.

Neither guard reacts to your presence. They are not here to check up on you, but to turn away visitors who have no business on the lowest and most secret level of the Second Librarium of Knowing. Fortunately you have all the right clearances and permissions required, to be down here in the dark bowels of the library. Not many do; you've yet to see a single other visitor all the way down on the thirteenth tier.

The twelfth tier is not of interest to you. It does not offer the facilities you require. It merely holds those restricted works that are just a tad bit less forbidden than the tome you are perusing. The same applies to the larger eleventh and tenth tiers; the last two levels to be composed solely of physical media copies.

What you are looking for will first be available as you ascend to the ninth tier; a query chamber with full access to the Librarium's vast data-stacks. There are more query chambers higher up of course, but the higher you climb, the less material is accessible. The topmost 1st Tier is barely more than a well-stocked public info bank. The 9th Tier is ideal; if the information exists in a format accessible by the Librarium's cogitators, you will have access to it.

As you walk your thoughts wander to Protasia: Was that how the Protasian Grid functioned? A ninth tier that every citizen could access through their locks? How would all that information affect the average - if such a thing can be said to exist - Imperial world? You entertain yourself with various scenarios to pass the time as you ascend, tier by tier. None of the outcomes seem very favourable: Too much data inevitably leads to too many ideas, which in turn lead to various forms of sedition and heretical behaviour. Information overflow inevitably leads to overtime for the servants of the Holy Ordos. Thought for the day: Ignorance is bliss. You chuckle at your own joke.

The flight of stairs leading up to the ninth tier - or down to the tenth if you like - is much wider and less steep than the stairs leading to the thirteenth tier. Like so many other things in the place you're convinced the design is part practical application and part symbology. Smaller and steeper to accommodate less and less traffic. Smaller and steeper to symbolize restricted access and the gravity of the lore contained therein.

Again there is a security check-point, including two gold-cloaks standing guard at the top of the stairwell. You give them a polite nod, and then move purposefully towards the loremasters in attendance. A quick mental scan has revealed a trio of them standing about the central communal area, not far from the query chambers.

You follow a wide corridor in the Imperial Gothic-Baroque style that has been all the rage for the last couple of millennia. It is lined with crystalline statues of the Saints of Lore, an obscure group of angelic figures from across time and space that have in some way championed the controlled cultivation of sanctioned knowledge.

After several hundred meters the corridor empties into the grand central chamber of the 9th Tier. The great hall is lined with countless great shelves reaching fifty meters or more up into the air, arranged in multiple concentric circles. The shelves are filled to capacity with millions of books; physical copies of some of the works accessible to those with the clearances required to be here. The remaining eight levels above your head are arranged in much the same fashion, great public spaces, filled with symbolic representations of the lore contained within.

Radiating outwards, like the spokes of a wheel, are lesser corridors leading to the query chambers. That's your destination - a fully operational ninth tier query chamber.

A handful of petitioners are present, all of them either well-dressed or clad in the fashion of adepts and savants. All but one looks like they belong here. A mind-probe of the odd man out reveals him to be a household servant, dressed up and sent here on an errand for his master who has taken ill. Nothing to worry about.

Barring a roving two-man patrol of gold-cloaks and the odd selection of walking and floating librarium servitors, the only people of interest are the trio of loremasters your mind-scan revealed. Make that a quartet; the three are deferentially listening to a fourth person, a shapely mature woman with wonderfully fake cascading blonde hair, barely kept in check by pins and braiding.

Her hair is so artfully done that she must either have a very skilled valet - or a high-grade personal servitor. Her robes of office indicated that she is the Epistolary of the 9th Tier of the Second Library of Knowing. A position of no small importance here on Bokiba-Bapas. Judging by her exterior she is also clearly a woman who is not merely interested in lore for lore's sake, but one who values the carnal aspects of life - and the power and prestige her position brings.

But it is not her aged beauty, her fabulous hair, or her position that marks her as a person of interest. What sets her apart is her lack of a psychic presence. You probe her blankness. Gently at first, to test the waters, then more forcefully to determine her wards' potency. You come away none the wiser, save that the effect seems personal, limited to within a foot or so of her person, and that it is quite potent. Potent enough to completely block your probe.

You're left wondering: Could she be a psychic blank? You know of their existence of course, but you've yet to meet anyone of any real magnitude. If she is a blank, she's the first real specimen with enough of a null-aura to attract your attention. More likely she is not. But that begs the question; what potent device or arcane artefact generates such a strong anti-psionic field? It is leagues beyond the telepathic warding employed by the mystery team or the helmets worn by the Librarium's guardians.

Be that as it may. You approach the quartet in such a manner as to politely indicate you have a request, without interfering with what they are discussing. Incidentally you already know what they are talking about; you picked it from the minds of the unwarded Codiciers: The attempted forgery of papers to affect entry into the 9th Tier for a small group of three people.

Could it be an attempt by your stalkers to get at you on the inside? If so, it could complicate matters even more. You make a mental note to remain vigilant at all times while within the Librarium's tiered walls.

The Epistolary finishes and turns to leave. She flashes a brilliant white smile at you as she brushes past. You fight a sudden urge to turn and watch her go. Where did that come from? You've never been one to be turned around by looks alone. Ogling the butt of a senior librarium staff member is definitely not in character for you; it's something that Haxtes might have done - if he was in the mood for ogling.

One of the Codiciers greets you. "The Emperor's blessings upon you Goodman. How may the staff be of service?"

"I require access to a query chamber for approximately two hours," you say, "starting as soon as I've had some lunch. "How do I get hold of some food down here?"

The Codicier smiles. His teeth are brown and crooked, in stark contrast to those of his superior. You imagine his dental work is more typical of the average librarium adept. "I have a chamber ready for you Goodman, if you would follow me." He gestures for you to follow. "There is a valet-servitor within each chamber. It will see to your bodily needs," he says in low tones, before turning to hobble slowly down one of the lesser corridors.

You feel impatience bubbling up inside. At the current pace it will take forever to reach your designated chamber. You give the Codicier a mental nudge, urging him to speed up. He complies, but the combination of bad knees, a hunched back, and gross overweight makes the speed gain negligible. With an inward sigh you pick your destination from his mind, turn him around, and implant him with the knowledge that he's escorted you all the way and is now headed back to his peers, mission accomplished. As an afterthought you add a small mental worm; one that will, in time, compel him to try and do something about his ruined physique.

The query chamber has the same basic layout as the 13th Tier reading chambers you've become familiar with. The flagstones are identical and the blue-green stone on the walls are richly carved - this time with scenes of aquatic beasts battling each other - and humans arrayed with a variety of submersible equipment. On a whim you scan the artwork for any signs of a Haxtes look-alike. But there is none to be found. You're not sure if you're relieved - or annoyed at yourself for looking.

The primary difference between a reading and query chamber lies with the furnishing and the available equipment. The small podium has a large desk with a high-backed chair facing it. There are additional chairs lined along the wall, but you've brought no attendants and so no need for any of them. An old lectern towers in lonesome majesty next to the desk; it looks positively ancient and little used. To one side there is a round table, surrounded by a leather couch and some plush chairs.

Upon the desk are various appliances required to interact with the data-stacks of the librarium; digi-styluses, several large flexi-screen dataslates, a hololithic projector, immersion headbands, and so forth. There is also an auditor station; a trapezoid charcoal box with a faded golden Aquila on one side. Good. It will allow you to utilize your superior clearances without further ado. A single sweep of your bequeathed Rosette into its scanning beam and you'll have full access.

There are no servoskulls in attendance; lighting is provided by common illuminator panels. There are two servitors. One is finely dressed and almost human in appearance; you suppose it is the valet model. You instruct it to bring you a hearty lunch, including a suitable vintage.

The other servitor is of the quaestor type - its job is to help those petitioners who lack the required skills to utilize the librarium's search spirits properly. The quaestor is slow and ungainly, with a myriad of visible cybernetic parts. A fitting appearance for a servitor tasked with facilitating human-cogitator interaction. You've no need for its services and order it into hibernation mode. Short of banishing it from the chamber it's the closest thing you'll get to complete privacy. It resists your command ever so briefly, until the security algorithms contained within the Rosette overrides its deeper programming layers.

While waiting for your lunch, you take the opportunity to familiarize yourself with the chamber's query equipment. It's fairly standard fare; everything complies with familiar standard templates. There are a few idiosyncrasies, there always is, for no two Forge Worlds or Manufactorum Guilds produce exactly the same products. If you add layers of ornamentation and decades, if not centuries, of divergent maintenance, any techno-artefacts tend to become different in form, if not in basic function. But everything is well within the standard norm. You'll have no trouble utilizing any of the gear.

The auditor station accepts your Dark Omega clearance and Librarium-issued permissions. You now have full access to every info-bank, data-crypt, and meme-stack within the Librarium. If that isn't sufficient you can use your Inquisition protocols to interface with any external system you feel like looking into. As long as they are tied into the Bapas grid - it might not be open to all like Protasia's, but it's still there - there is no keeping you out unless they too have Inquisition-level security. Or employ heretek - heretical technology - to protect their secrets. Which would in turn warrant a sudden, physical visitation by the joint forces of the Holy Ordos and the Adeptus Mechanicus.

The valet-servitor returns with your meal. You instruct it to lay it out on the desk as opposed to the coffee table. Predictably it protests; no food or beverages of any kind on the query desk. You've had quite enough of servitor protestations and decide enforce its compliance. The valet is made to a flexible/interactive specification and retains a wide range of higher brain functions, meaning your psychic powers work on it with just a little tweaking.

After it has finished setting the table it retreats a distance and goes into standby mode. There is no reason for you to put it into forced hibernation; it's programmed for discretion and won't even remember you were here.

The food is acceptable. A little bland perhaps, but not disastrously so. Not as warm as you'd have liked. Cooled from the lengthy trek down from the kitchens on one of the upper tier. The wine is delicious and finely matched to the meal. Haxtes would have approved.

In between bites you take the time to punch a manual query into the search-engine using the physical keyboard worked into the surface of the desk: A-k-a-k-i-o-s.

Haxtes claimed that all traces of his homeworld had been purged from Imperial records, as a result of the Edict of Obliteration. Perhaps he spoke the truth. Perhaps not. Trust is not something you will extend to Haxtes. Not now, not ever. He's too clever and manipulative for that. Now you have the opportunity to try and find holes in his story - maybe an outright lie to confront him with. Now that would make your day.

You're hoping that perhaps this distant corner of the Finial sector is remote enough to have escaped the Inquisitorial purge. The Holy Ordos are very thorough, but the control of information can be a very complex and challenging business. Especially when you have places like the Library of Knowing. Places that deliberately collect secrets and guard them with great enthusiasm.


	52. CHAPTER 40 - QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

The querying machine-spirit starts to work its way through the labyrinthine indexes of the Librarium of Knowing's many info-banks. After several mouthfuls of lunch and a few sips of wine it returns a blank. There are no indexed references to Akakios in active storage. You're not surprised. It's not going to that easy.

You extend your index search into the archived data-crypts. The query spirit aestimates a search time of an hour and a half. You launch the query and add a new one: A cursory search for Akakios in all of active memory; not an index search, but a full scan of all searchable material. Two hours aestimated. You hit launch, then sit back and savour the wine.

Finding out more about the Haxtes character's background is only interesting in so far as it might reveal to what degree he's lying. The more lies you find, the easier it will be for you to catch him in the act later on. It could provide you with the advantage you need to bypass him as a security element. It is time to get rid of bloody annoying Haxtes and get deeper into the tome's secrets.

You activate the hololithic projector. It's an old unit. Not old enough to be awe-inspiring archaotech. Just old in the bad sense of the word; sluggish, unreliable, and difficult to tune. Your fingers experiment with the interface, manipulating queries and tuning display parameters. The holographic image coalesces - with acceptable clarity - into an astrographic presentation of the Drusus Marches sub-sector, Calixis sector. At the heart of the image: A yellow Solarian-type sun labelled Aethyr.

You zoom in a bit, pull key system data from the data-stacks. The hololithic display spews out orbital and planetary data for all major system bodies. The words are too blurred to read, however, forcing you to switch over to one of the dataslates. What the dataslate lacks in three-dimensional majesty, it makes up for in speed of operation and readability. The system contains only one naturally habitable planet. Name: Protasia. Designation: Frontier World.

While waiting for the background queries to complete, you don one of the immersion headbands. Unlike a visual display - be it a hololithic image or a traditional screen - it projects a stream of preformatted neurovisual data onto your retina. Whereas a visual display is limited by your reading speed, a neurovisual device is limited only by your minds ability to accept an incoming data stream. In your case it means you can, for example, read a text up to five times faster than normal. Or get all the data from a fast-forwarding pict-cording. It's a well-known STC pattern, but since you need a specially conditioned mind to utilize them properly they remain rare in actual use. The only wholesale users you know of are the Adeptus Astartes; they use similar machines to help teach their recruits the million and one things humanity's finest need to know.

Immersion headbands - and similar tech - do not provide full MIU man-machine interface. You, however, have no need to compel any machine spirits. You just need to be able to receive data as quickly as you mind can process it. Otherwise you'll be in here all day, searching of inconsequential answers to unimportant questions.

You start by pulling up a range of easily accessible information; a series of queries about Protasia. According to Haxtes the world by this name should be on file. From personal experience you remember the name from a star chart of the Calixis sector. Information is flashed into your mind with blinding speed as the queries return with their findings.

The basics seem to fit. There is indeed a world on the fringes of the Drusus sub-sector called Protasia. Formerly classified as a War World, currently classified as a Frontier World. Your sources doesn't specifically say what happened to make it a warzone. The lack of data isn't surprising; a Calixian colony world would not necessarily be on file this far away. The Imperium is most stringent when it comes to the needless spread of information.

Protasia. Ruled by the House of Grimes. First Imperial Commander, Grimes I, inaugurated by Scintillan decree 5.565.818.M41, confirmed by High Lords of Terra 0.745.823.M41. You recall seeing the year the date-time-stamp 5.099.815.M41 on one of the astropathic transcripts Haxtes discovered within the Inquisition facility. So Grimes was approved as Governor by Scintilla a mere three and a half year after the first 'incident'.

The Imperial Commander is currently one Renaud III, or at least it was when these records were compiled a few years back. You leaf through the roll of planetary governors. The list is rather short. Grimes ruled for close to twenty years. He was followed by his son, Grimes II, who was killed just a short while thereafter. The records do not list the reason, but you know what happened: Skull-Taker Verrigan carved a bloody path across the planet.

Protasia. Judging by its location it's something of a gateway to the Koronus Expanse. One of the major routes from Scintilla to the Maw passes through the system. Sounds like a world that could become important.

You try to find out more about Protasia, going back a handful of centuries, but the planet's history records are oddly bereft of detail. So Protasia could be Akakios renamed. It's not been established, but the possibility is definitely there. It's a bit disappointing, but then again the Haxtes persona is too clever by half to make use of blatant lies. His lies are of the subtle, manipulating kind.

When going back doesn't work you try going into exacting detail, but the Second Librarium of Knowing isn't an Administratum repository of bureaucratic trivia. There is simply nothing to be found. You could open a connection to the wider Bokiban official records, but you doubt it will make any difference. Protasia is, despite its position on the Scintilla to Port Wander route, a small and unimportant place, far removed from the great flying cities of Bokiba-Bapas. Chances are virtually non-existent that you'll find what you're after.

The only way to get any deeper would be for you to establish an astropathic connection to the Prol archives, the official Imperial archives in Calixis. The records you are after are more than old enough to have reached the archives, but not old enough to have been abridged and placed in deep storage.

There is a big catch, however. Doing so would require use if you Rosette and Inquisitorial clearances - a sure way to signal your presence to the rest of the galaxy. Just because one group of enemies are on to you doesn't mean you can afford to broadcast your whereabouts to everyone else.

Perhaps you will have the opportunity to revisit the Protasia/Akakios question at a later data. Probably not. In a few days the question will be entirely academic: And you're no scholar.

You follow up with a handful of simple queries, mostly to pass the time while you're waiting for the Akakios queries to complete. The world of Lo. The Margin Worlds Crusade. The Spinward Front. The Lathes Mechanicus. Sector Commander Marius Hax. Verrigan. Grimes. Zhukov.

Most of the searches are quick, others take several minutes to finish. Your disciplined, yet agile mind unfailingly picks up the incoming information at an astonishing rate, sorting, indexing, and storing, drawing out and connecting the bits and pieces that will help answer your questions.

Lo. Nothing interesting there. No, wait. There is a reference to a regiment, the 57th Lo, being disbanded - and settled on the Frontier world of Protasia. The reference itself is dated 825.M41, but it doesn't say when the 57th was disbanded. It could be Jons' regiment, disbanded some years prior to the record being made. It seems to confirm Haxtes story, but you cannot be certain. Insufficient data; once more you're too far removed and the records too obscure.

The year 731.M41 marks the ascension of Marius Hax as Imperial Commander of the Calixis Sector. He succeeds his kinsman Larhanus Sult, for whom he has acted as an advisor and confidante for decades. Hax ruled well into the 9th century. Another lead that leads nowhere.

Verrigan gets you no returns, which is only fitting since he was declared Excommunicate Traitoris and hunted down by the Ordo Malleus. If you had found something you would have been very surprised. Relatedly; the query-spirit would normally have alerted the Librarium staff of your search of Verrigan. Your Dark Omega kills any such notions, but it's good to know that the Second Library is taking its security seriously.

The great Prelate Zhukov gives you some additional circumstantial evidence. That his name exists down here in Finial is testament to his fame as a crusading firebrand. A local Bokiban scholar has written a biography on the man; the story of how a high-ranking churchman stepped down from his lofty position to do missionary work among the heathens. The biography was done in the final decades if the 41st Millennium. As a posthumous work it will invariably be distorted by the passage of time, but there is one interesting bit to be found - someone has purged the name of the world that Zhukov was appointed to as a Prelate, prior to his firebrand years. It could well be the name Protasia/Akakios that has been purged. You cannot be sure, but your gut feeling tells you it is so.

Margin Worlds Crusade. Launched 784.M41. Actually an attempt by the Ministorum to mount a major military operation to expand the borders of the Periphery subsector. It fared poorly. Ships and divisions were sent out piecemeal into the unexplored vastness that lies between the Calixis and Scarus sectors. Decades later it dragged bloodily on, with little gain to show for the lives spent. Then all contact was lost as a green tide of orks surged forth from the dark unknown and fell upon the Periphery. At the Lucid Palace the blame for provoking this unexpected ork upsurge was put squarely on the shoulders of the Ministorum and Duke Severus XIII, sub-sector commander of the Periphery.

Some good came of it though; the Imperium would not waste more resources on this failed colonial venture, but instead used the Margins Crusade as a cover for the build-up and support of another, far more important crusade: The Achilus Crusade. A crusade very few are privy to; your master is, for obvious reasons, one of those in the know.

Haxtes was eight when the bombs started falling. If the astropathic transcript is to be trusted he was born in 807.M41. He had just turned nine when he met the Guardsmen. In Thira it was early autumn when the Imperials arrived. You check the system data for Protasia and do some quick calculations, pegging the encounter around 200.816.M41.

The men of the 57th Lo had been together for several years, subjective time, a bit longer in objective time, given that they had several warp journeys under their belt. The earliest date you can find for a formally designated Spinward Front is in 814.M41. That was the year the green tide of orks - either the same one stirred up by the margins Crusade or another, the records aren't clear - hit the Periphery/Severanian subsector.

There is a mismatch here. Protasia rebelled before the Spinward Front went on record. Add to that the time required for the 57th Lo to muster, deploy, spend years fighting together, be pulled out, and redeploy to Protasia.

Have you, finally, found a hole in Haxtes story? You begin a parallel verification process. From the meagre data available, you know there had been conflict in that particular area for decades prior 814.M41. Fringe worlds brought into the Imperial fold by the Margins Crusade required garrisoning. Some local rebellions. Minor incursions by orks and other xenos. There are historic records of Duke Severus XIII repeatedly, starting in the 790s, petitioning Scintilla for Imperial Guard regiments to supplement his own forces.

So the 57th Lo could have been deployed to an unofficial 'Spinward Front' well prior to 814, even if it didn't officially exist yet. After all, the Periphery is Spinward of the sector proper, so if the military planners were to give it an informal name, it could well have been the Spinward Front.

Haxtes mentioned the sixty divisions sent to Protasia were originally meant for other warzones. The two hundred and forty follow-up divisions is another matter. They must have been hurriedly assembled, primarily from Calixian worlds. If only you had access to the records of the Departmento Munitorum on Solomon, then you could have confirmed the dates beyond a shadow of a doubt!

Your best guess is that Lord Hax sent his envoys to Protasia in 814.M41 and that the world was in full rebellion the year after. The 57th Lo would have rotated out from the new Spinward Front around that time, carried aboard a Munitorum mass conveyor that had just delivered more divisions or provisions to the 'Spinward Front'. Only the 57th Lo never got all the way home. Because of Protasia's rebellion Guardsmen were suddenly in critical short supply. By 816.M41 Jons and the rest of the 57th Lo were in Thira, helping first to take the city, and then to garrison it.

You're tempted to put in a direct query for Haxtes, but you realize that it won't amount to anything: A direct search for Inquisitors or Inquisitorial agents is doomed to be useless; the Library of Knowing contains many secrets, but it's not an Inquisition archive. Not even the local Officio here on Bokiba-Bapas will have the data that you seek. You strongly doubt even an astropathic connection to the Tricorn would help. The answers you seek are probably hidden away in deep vaults that are not searchable from the outside.

The Jarra woman is probably nothing. An ogryn recruited from who knows where. Smarter and prettier than your typical orgy, but still just hired muscle.

But Vernissimon de Veridia of Archaos, a trained savant from the Planet of Philosophers, that might yield something. Fifteen minutes later you have browsed through a number of planetary folios that bear the name of the esteemed Vernissimon. In addition to his Inquisitorial work the good Vern has produced quite a few scholarly pieces of text, detailing little-known aspects of many outlying worlds in Calixis and beyond. Completely worthless.

Your background searches on Akakios are finally done. There is one indexed entry in the data-crypts for an Imperial world called Akaki in the Drusus sub of the Calixis sector. The name could be a misspelling of Akakios. You do a cursory search for Akaki. No returns. Finding no other references to this mystery world strengthens your theory; Akaki is Akakios.

Unfortunately the index reference leads nowhere. Or rather, it leads to a deleted document or archive entry. You can sense the Holy Ordos at work. A bit sloppy to miss such an obvious misspelling. On the other hand they did get rid of the underlying information, so you might still call it objective accomplished.

You try your hand at several tangential queries, but they lead precisely nowhere. Or rather they lead to the edge of nowhere; there is undeniably a hole in the librarium's records where additional data on Akakios/Protasia should have been. Consistent with an unseen intrusion by Inquisition purge-worms. Conclusion: The Edict of Obliteration was indeed issued.

The full search of the active memory stacks doesn't add much information. There would hardly have been many references to Akakios in the first place. A small an unimportant world far away, purged from records centuries ago. You close the query.

And then there is the Maiden of Golgenna. The vessel that supposedly carried Inquisitor Melbinious into the great unknown. On a whim - perhaps brought to you by Haxtes' Rogue Trader impersonation - you add Jaxel Guilliman to the query, layering it with the ship-search. There are no returns, but you still have a solid feeling about the query.

You demand an exterior connection to traffic control, presenting your Rosette to the auditor station to avoid any Imperial entanglements. There. In the records of the Harbour-Master. Several entries on a Maiden of Golgenna back in medio M41, under three different captains. Not very interesting. But then a Rogue Trader named Jaxel Guilliman visited Bokiba-Bapas several centuries later. Rogue Trader Jaxel Guilliman, Master and Commander of the sprint freighter Domina Calixis - the Mistress of Calixis. You just know that name is a fake, even without any evidence to back it up. The Mistress of Calixis is the Maiden of Golgenna, you're sure of it. And Haxtes own brother was the commanding officer.

You snort out a little laugh; Rogue Trader Guilliman your ass. No doubt the Warrant of Trade was as fake as the name of the ship. So Haxtes did meet his brother again. Used him for his own ends no doubt. But how did they get access to a genuine voidship? You actually look forward to hearing that particular story.

In conclusion your lunchtime research has revealed no holes in Haxtes story. Granted you're short of concrete evidence, what you have is almost exclusively substantial, but you're starting to think that most of what he's told you is actually true. Maybe not all the details are entirely accurate. Maybe he's over-embellished a little. But the basic framework of his story holds together.

A thought starts to form in your mind. The genesis of an idea that quickly swells as more information flows into it. If Haxtes' tale is true, then he was born at the end of the 8th century of the 41st millennium. Melbinious was active during the sixth and seventh centuries. By some accounts he was around as late as the very start of the eight. But he's still separated from Haxtes by nearly a hundred years, probably more.

Yet there are also some indications that Melbinious was back in service in the 9th century. You've never put much stock in those fragmentary tales, preferring to focus your attentions on the 'original' Melbinious. Now you are not so sure anymore. Could Melbinious have returned from the Halo Stars aboard the Maiden of Golgenna? Alive, centuries after his supposed death - or exile? A long lifespan to be sure, but not impossible given regular rejuvenation treatments. Or perhaps time was spent in stasis?

And that's before you take into account that one of the reasons Melbinious fell out of favour was his quest for longevity. Nay, not longevity, immortality. Did Melbinious first escape his peers by fleeing into the Halo Stars, then returned to Calixis, long after his enemies were dead? Did he employ the secret of immortality on himself and simply outlived them all? Is he perhaps still out there? You've toyed with such ideas before, but dismissed them as fanciful day-dreams, nothing more.

You sigh deeply, then rise and stretch. There is no point in mulling. You've no way of confirming any of this. You don't have the time to search this librarium. You don't have the liberty to return to Calixis. And even if Melbinious returned, even if he lives still: What does it matter to you? Not one iota. The tome is your goal, the information inside your prize. To the Eye with Melbinious.

You reactivate the dormant servitor and instruct the valet to clean up after you; you've no further use for the chamber. You've spent more than enough time eating, resting, and flexing your mind. Now it is time to go accidentally bump into librarian Amaya before you embark upon a second session with the tome of Melbinious.

You've no problem locating her - her mental footprint is well known to you by know. She's up on the 7th Tier, trying to explain to her gold-cloak lover that she's just not into him anymore. That there is no other man in her life. That it's not him, but her. She's right about the latter, but not the former - she just doesn't yet realize that the future man in her life is you.

You engage her in a short, superficial conversation. Your real purpose is not to talk, but to scan her up close. Looking good. The worm is doing its work. A bit quicker than anticipated in fact. There is no need for further modifications. You close the mind-scan, smile brightly to Amaya, and bid her good day. She'll be seeing more of you soon enough.


	53. CHAPTER 41 - FORBIDDEN LORE

"You're back," Haxtes says. "Took your sweet time too." He's standing at the table, decanting some sort of wine.

You accept the drink he offers you. "I had things to do in the real world," you reply coyly. "Real people stuff."

Haxtes finishes, pours wine into waiting glasses, and resumes his seat. "Really? And what would that be? Ogling the female staff? Trying to catch me at lies? Both of the above?"

You return a grim smile. "Sorry Haxtes, we're not playing your little mind-games today. Your guesswork is, as always, quite accurate. But no, I'm not fearful that you've crept inside my mental fortress. I'm done doubting my mental architecture; it's quite good enough now. If you try to work your way around it, I will compensate." You say it matter-of-factly, sounding fully confident in your own abilities.

In reality you are less certain, but you can't let the bastard know that. To compensate for Haxtes' insidious ways you've already adopted a more agile architecture. It's superficially the same as before, same compartments, et cetera. But the underlying mechanisms are more dynamic. It's a more demanding way of doing things, but your defences aren't static anymore. It will make getting around them much, much harder for the tome.

Haxtes nods once. "You're growing on me Marcus, I'll give you that." He has a sip of the wine. "Just like this wine; the Lurrian elderberry berries are extremely poisonous, but if treated correctly they can be made into a marvellous drink."

"I wouldn't know," you profess, "but the taste is really excellent. You do know your liquor Haxtes, I'll give you that."

Haxtes gives you the not-smile again. "Well thank you Marcus. I've worked quite hard at becoming a proper gentleman. One cannot expect to be accepted into polite society as a peer of the realm, without having a certain appreciation for self-intoxication."

"You would know more of such things that me," you reply.

"So, where did we leave off?" Haxtes asks, ignoring your jibe.

"At the very end," you reply chidingly. "You were about to reveal to me the secrets of immortality."

"Ha!" Haxtes snorts in feigned surprise. "You're starting to develop a sense of humour as well. Next thing you know the Golden Throne has failed and Horus himself has returned - to the great annoyance of the self-proclaimed Warmaster Abaddon!"

You have another sip. "I guess I deserved that one, didn't I?" You let out a small sigh. "Incidentally there is a rumour that the Throne has ceased to function. It's a rumour that has gone around many times before - and been stringently supressed."

Haxtes quickly ripostes. "But this time it is for real? And that's why you need the master's secrets; so that the God-Emperor can be restored to life and lead humanity to final victory? Well I guess that settles it then."

You lift your free hand in apology. "My apologies Haxtes. I'm just in a good mood after lunch. I do not know in detail what my master intends to do with the lore of immortality, except that it is indeed for the betterment of Mankind."

Haxtes shrugs. "Too bad. If it really was the restoration of the God-Emperor to living life I might have relented."

You give him a flat look. "You? Relent? I think not."

Haxtes rewards you with a very brief grin.

"You were telling me about how you got kicked in the nuts and taken away by the wicked off-world assassins," you add.

"Indeed I was. Sit back and relax. I'll try to be brief."

I had never been to space before, let alone set foot on a voidship. Some Protasians did go to space, but they were mostly naval PDF types or merchant marine crews. For ordinary Protasian people there was no reason to go to space. There is nothing to see or do out there in the void. And to a Protasian there is no place dearer than home. The desire to visit foreign worlds for the sake of the experience was not part of our cultural psyche.

The closest I had gotten to space was the hopper. But the hopper could go only so high. The twin turborotors didn't deliver much thrust once you went beyond 10,000 meters, plus the cabin wasn't pressurized, which made it really unpleasant once you reached four or five klicks.

If you want to reach orbit you need a lander or a shuttle: They have the same anti-grav coils as the hopper, but they are sealed and pressurized, and have multistage engines that can provide full thrust at all altitudes, up to and including true void flight. And they have shielding, which is kind of nice if you want to cut back on cosmic radiation and come back down again without burning up in the atmosphere.

So this was a novel experience for me. After a stomach-churning ascent, the vessel settled down a bit. Another ten minutes and I could feel thrusters firing, causing the lander to slowly rotate. If I craned my neck, I could barely manage to look out through one of the lander's viewports. We were nearing our destination; a metal leviathan lying idly in low orbit. The pilot was merging our vector with that of the larger vessel, edging us smoothly towards the metal monstrosity.

I was no expert when it came to voidships, but I easily recognized the tell-tale signs of an Imperial vessel; the distinctive prow, the elongated box-like body, the massive real-space engines. Size is damn hard to pin down when you've got nothing to reference against. My best guess was that it measured a couple of kilometres, maybe three. Not a big ship then, but not a small one either. As we drew closer, I could see that it was decorated in the baroque-gothic style you would expect on an Imperial voidship. I could also rule out the ship being military; there were no massive lances in sight, no tiered rows of macro-batteries. Clearly this was a civilian vessel, a lumbering merchantman.

That was all I had time to observe, before a gaping maw opened in the mothership's metal flank and swallowed us whole. We passed through a poorly-lit tunnel and the shuttle finally settled down on the landing deck with no small amount of ruckus. There was clanking and hissing and roaring and shaking. The shuttle must have been in a horrible condition, and the pilot was either completely incompetent or intoxicated. I would certainly not have accepted such dereliction of duty aboard any ship of mine; the pilot would have been spacewalked, and the enginseer shot for failing to carry out the necessary rites of maintenance.

"And you've commanded many ships during your career Haxtes?" you ask.

Smiling, eyes distant. "I daresay I've held more commands than you ever will Marcus. But there was only ever one that was truly mine: She was something, I'll tell you that."

"The Maiden of Golgenna?" you ask, your curiosity piqued.

Haxtes becomes remote and cold. "You say that name as if you are in the know. That you are somehow privy to the secrets of the Maiden. I assure you Marcus, you are not."

So he did command a vessel by that name. And his inflection - faint as it was - confirmed that there is more than one Maiden, more than one meaning. Just as you thought. Potentially very interesting.

You launch into the conversation with renewed vigour and purpose. "Then illuminate me! Throw me a bone to keep me interested."

"I thought you already were," Haxtes counters.

"Only in so far as I'm leading you on, while trying hard to find a way to get rid of the Haxtes protocol."

"I see," Haxtes says slowly, "and here I thought we were becoming fast friends."

You raise your glass in mock salute, Haxtes style.

Haxtes raises his glass in return. "You will not succeed Marcus. In getting rid of me. You're welcome to try, but in time you will come to understand why it is a futile endeavour."

"Then give me something to prevent me from wasting my resources on futility! Because I will continue to try. And the harder the task seems, the more obsessed I will become."

"Obsession is nine tenths of a good investigation, isn't that what they say?" Haxtes asks rhetorically.

"I thought it was possession is nine tenths of the law, but who knows what weirdness you've come up with out in the Calixian dark," is your riposte.

Haxtes put on a show of considering for a while - but you've not fooled; he's already made up his mind.

"Very well, I'll throw you a bone - or two. But only if you keep it civil and cooperative."

You bite back an acidic retort and instead nod your agreement.

"You consider yourself something of an expert on the subject of Inquisitor Melbinious, correct?"

"Yes," you reply. "Relatively speaking of course. Melbinious was damnable secretive. And the Calixian Conclave did a very thorough job in purging anything related to him following his fall from grace."

"I appreciate your difficulties," Haxtes says, apparently lost in thought. "And what of the Propheticum Hereticus Tenebrae - the Prophecy of the Black Heresy - what do you know of it?" he says after a few seconds.

"Not as much as I'd like. What I do know is that it has to do with a prophecy of a great doom that is said to threaten the entire Calixis sector. That this doom is heralded by a monstrous 'black sun' that some name the 'Tyrant Star'. There is as Cabal of Inquisitors guarding this lore - the Tyrantine Cabal - and they are very secretive, and sometimes heavy-handed in the pursuit of secrecy."

"Go on," Haxtes interjects, "you're doing good so far."

"Melbinious was part of the Cabal, which is what led me to searching for clues as to the nature of the Tyrant Star in the first place. But since it was not my primary objective, I was loath to search too deep, lest I bring unwanted attention to myself."

"Very wise of you Marcus," Haxtes agrees. "The Tyrantine Cabal can indeed be heavy-handed. They would not think twice about eliminating a nosy interrogator serving a distant master."

"And what about you Haxtes, what do you know of Komus, the Tyrant Star. Do you have its measure?" you ask, only half mockingly.

Haxtes laughs at your suggestion. "No Marcus, I do not. I do not have the measure of the Tyrant Star. No man has. It's not that I didn't try - for years it was something of an obsession of mine - but the minds of mortals are simply not capable of nailing it down."

"I do not understand," you say questioningly.

"What do you not understand? That I don't know what Komus is? Or that there are things that man cannot know?" Haxtes asks.

"The first of the two," you reply. "There is nothing man cannot understand or do. Not if he puts his will to it, and lets the God-Emperor protect and guide him."

"That is neither true, nor what I meant. First of all there are - blessedly - a lot of things man is incapable of comprehending." He gives you a stare reminiscent of the one favoured by your Psykana schoolmasters. "Secondly, what I meant is that it is the nature of the Tyrant Star to be unknowable. It defies all attempts at understanding it. The moment you think you understand something about it, is the moment you realize that all your theories are unsound. That is part of what the Tyrant Star is; something unknowable, a mystery that cannot be solved."

"That doesn't make a lot of sense Haxtes," you say. "Somewhere there must be answers. Komus must be something. You just haven't looked hard or long enough."

"Not hard or long enough?" Haxtes barks uncharacteristically. "Tell that to the many wise Inquisitors who have spent the cream of their years staring ever deeper into the Propheticum Hereticus Tenebrae, with nothing be frustration and insanity to show for their efforts."

"So the Tyrantine Cabal knows nothing? It's just a bunch of decrepit and insane Inquisitors, who jealously guard the lore of nothing?" you say sounding slightly condescending.

Haxtes chuckles again. He's merrier than you've seen him before. "No, no! The Cabal has plenty of lore. Scores of theories, many of them completely contradictory. Supported by enormous amounts of harrowing research, most of which cannot in any way be replicated."

"Because of the ever-changing, mutable, and unknowable nature of the Tyrant Star?" you venture. "Sounds like an aethyric phenomenon to me; very chaotic in nature."

"That's what they all think - at first. But when they look more closely they cannot pin down what kind of phenomenon." He swirls the contents of his glass. "And later it appears to them it must be an alien artefact of immense power. Or that it is an engine of destruction from the Dark Age of Technology, powered by the energies of the Warp. And so it goes, until they've come full circle."

"Is it nothing then?" you add. "Just an idea, with no real bearing on the galaxy?" You find that hard to believe.

"Far from it. The Tyrant Star is very real. It is as real as fear itself. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what you cannot understand. Fear of the terror you know lurks right around the corner. Fear of the black heresy you've heard talk of; a dread spectral star, heralding the end of it all."

"So you're saying the Tyrant Star a metaphysical entity, given power by the fears of mankind?"

Haxtes fixes you with that unrelenting gaze of his. "Yes. That is the one thing the Tyrant Star definitely is: For as long as man knows fear - which isn't likely to end anytime soon - and knowledge of the Tyrant Star is passed on - it will remain a very real and dangerous phenomenon."

"Is that why the Tyrantine Cabal is so secretive?"

Haxtes empathically shakes his head. "When last I checked it was made up of power-hungry and deluded fools. They are secretive because they are paranoid, callous, and jealously guard 'their' secrets."

"But", you feel you must get this back on track, "how does this relate to Melbinious."

"He was part of the Cabal. He had his theories. Some of them too controversial even for peers such as his. He was disavowed, which is pretty much the same as being declared rogue."

"That's an exaggeration," you object. If you're declared rogue you're hunted down. A disavowed Inquisitor just has his powers of office revoked."

"Yes," Haxtes say with a snap, "and what happens after? What happens when you're no longer an inquisitor, but still has all those secrets locked up inside your brain?"

You nod in realization. "You get to have an accident, don't you?"

"Indeed you do. So to prevent any such unpleasantness from happening he took passage into the Koronus Expanse upon a Rogue Trader vessel, the Pro Patria-class sprint freighter Maiden of Golgenna." He lets the name sink in. "Yes, that ship. My ship."

Knowing that he will only brush away any questions regarding the Maiden you try another angle. "Can I ask what the great controversy was all about? I had assumed it was his immortality research, but you seem to indicate it was the Tyrant Star that was responsible."

"I think you can safely assume that both immortality and his views on the Star were responsible. As well you know there is only one immortal human." He manages to sound like he's half mocking the God-Emperor without actually saying anything to that effect.

Another attempt to unnerve you. Another failed attempt. "The God-Emperor of Mankind," you reply in a very calm and controlled tone.

"Indeed," Haxtes agrees. "Only the God-Emperor of Mankind. Long life is acceptable, but immortality is not. It is a heresy. Even the great Archmagi of the Adeptus Mechanicus know and accept this."

"And the Tyrant Star? What could be so radical as to warrant his death?"

"Inquisitor Melbinious believed - very strongly - that the Tyrant Star was the herald of a new, great Chaos Power." Silence grows between you when you fail to reply.

"I shall not name them, because that makes you all jittery, but you know of whom I speak," he adds.

Their blasphemous names come uninvited into your interactive compartment: Khorne, the Blood God. Slaanesh, the Depraved. Tzeentch, the Defiler. Nurgle, the Corruptor. Just thinking of their names makes you mildly nauseous.

Haxtes nods knowingly. "Yes, I see you are a believer," he chuckles at his own vile joke. "They are real, aren't they? You can always debate their nature and their connection to Mankind, but there is no denying their existence or their fell power. Only the foolish and the weak convince themselves otherwise."

You empty your glass to rinse your mouth. "Don't use the word 'believe' that way Haxtes. I believe in only one greater being; the God-Emperor of Mankind."

"If my poor joke offended you, I am truly sorry," he says, his tone entirely unapologetic.

You wave away his false apology.

Haxtes continues. "He believed the Tyrant Star heralded the coming of this new power. A power whose portfolio included mass fear, widespread madness, loss of identity, the inner bestiality revealed - as exemplified by the dark revels reported in conjunction with various sightings of the Tyrant Star."

You feel you must say something to show that you're neither ignorant nor fearful when it comes to the Archenemy. "The nether pits of the Warp are filled with all manner of loathsome beasts, including the Daemons of Chaos. Some of which are greater in power and wickedness than their lesser kind. That is known. But I've never heard that there could be more - or less - than four foul powers."

"That is because you know so very little of the Warp, Marcus." There is a slight hint of weariness in Haxtes voice. "Just count yourself fortunate in your ignorance, and keep your curiosity in check. I didn't, and I've regretted every bit of lore learned a thousand times over." He draws breath and quickly adds, "You cannot quantify or catalogue Chaos, Marcus. It cannot be done," then falls silent.

Typical of Haxtes; words without substance, vague hints, and hidden meanings. Well, you know a few things of Chaos yourself. "My master has taught me that the Chaos powers are personification of the dark parts of the human psyche. And this I hold to be true." You leave the statement hanging there, daring Haxtes to object. He doesn't so you continue. "Until mankind has evolved sufficiently to cast of out mental shackles there will always be - always has been - four."

Haxtes laugh is contrite, designed to belittle you. "And fear, insanity and bestiality are not dark and base enough parts of the human mind-set to qualify for unholy godhood?" he exclaims. "Then you disagree with the great Melbinious. He thought it qualified."

"That's not the point," you counter. "The point is that chaos powers - your dark gods if you must - don't get created. They aren't humans that are born, live, or die."

"What about the birth of Slaanesh," Haxtes asks. "Surely that old serpent qualifies as a 'power'?"

"The Fall of the Eldar?" you ask. "You give that decadent and dying race a far too much credit. Depravity and excess were no less at work during the Age of Strife than was blood and death."

If you really must discuss these things, you might as well go all in.

"Just because the Eldar was such a decadent species doesn't warrant them any credit. Not even when it comes to Chaos. Slaanesh," saying it out loud makes your tongue tingle and the hairs on the backs of your hands rise, "is not an unholy power born of Eldar loins. Man must take the responsibility for that one too."

Haxtes deftly pours himself another drink using his left hand. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it? Say it out loud: Slaanesh. It's just a name. It holds no power over you, unless you let it." He has a sip. "It's good to know that we agree about at least one thing." He looks at you over the edge of the glass. "Maybe we can find additional common ground."

Is there a trace of blood on his black glove?

"Maybe," reply. "Although at the rate we're going it will take a while."

"I have practically forever Marcus. How about you?" He lifts his hand to forestall any reply. "I digress. Too many years in the company of Vern are to blame. Back to topic." He considers for a moment, then resumes. "Those were Melbinious favourites; the pursuit of immortality and research into the Tyrant Star. But there is more. As he delved deeper into dark mysteries and forbidden secrets his mind became as twisted. One could claim that the Tyrant Star had gotten to him."

"So in researching insanity personified you slowly go mad?" you say, more as a statement than a question.

Haxtes nods solemnly. "You cannot stare into the abyss without being affected. You cannot learn all the Names of Death without your soul becoming twisted. Neither can you understand the nature of the beast without becoming it.

"Hubris. Hubris got to him, didn't it? There is something you're not telling me Haxtes. Did he believe he could control Chaos? Did he delude himself into believing he could shape and control this god of madness and fear? Tell me!"

"You've already told yourself," Haxtes says gravely. "Yes he did. He believed he could help give birth to it, then bind it to himself, control it and use it, Chaos against Chaos."

"Madness..." the words spring unbidden to your lips.

"My point exactly," Haxtes agrees. "He even named it, this unborn god of his. Called it Malal, the Avenger."

"The Avenger? Why?" you ask.

"He believed that dread Malal had lived before, that its birth was more of a rebirth really." Haxtes peers intently into the depths of his glass. "He believed that the other Chaos power had done him in, but that he would return now, at the End Times, to avenge the wrongs done to him. Which made him ideal for Melbinious' plan."

It's almost too much to take in one sitting. "And you, what do you think Haxtes? Was he right?" There is more he's not telling you.

"As I said, the Tyrant Star defies understanding. Try too hard and you too will go insane. But that's quite enough; you've had your bone and more. We'll talk more of the Tyrant Star - and other things - later on. Now shut up and let me continue the tale of my wretched youth."


	54. CHAPTER 42 - MUSTER

The restraining harnesses lifted, and the twenty or so children were herded out of the shuttle and onto the metal deck. Those who were not quick enough got smacked around a bit. Those who were too quick got prodded with shock rods for their troubles. I kept to the middle and tried to avoid attention.

After a bit of milling around we received a liberal helping of slaps and shocks, until we were finally able to assemble into a formation of rows and columns. As musters go it was a poor one. We would never have passed an inspection by Sarge.

No sooner were we assembled than we were marched out of the landing bay in two columns. We passed through several access portals, then went down a set of wide metal stairs inlaid with faded and cracked mosaics. I couldn't quite make out what the motifs had been. The lighting was poor, and the air stale and warm. On two occasions there were minute fluctuations in the local gravity. Overall the ship gave the impression of great age and insufficient maintenance.

We had no clue where we were going. Not that it mattered. It was obvious to all of us - me included - that any form of attempted escape would be utter foolishness. We trapped aboard an unknown voidship, escorted by the same four black-clad assassins that had captured us and kept watch over us in the shuttle. We knew we didn't stand a chance.

One of the four was my own captor, a tall male with very broad shoulders and slender hips. His body was covered top to toe, head included, with tight-fitting black mesh armour. He wore his armour under a long cloak that seemed impossibly dark and matte. I later learned it was made of cameleoline fabric, the penultimate form of camouflage, able to alter its texture and coloration to blend in with the surroundings. Now it had been deactivated and hung limply around the assassin's body. If you looked carefully you could make out the weapons and other gear he carried beneath the cloak. It was quite the collection.

I made a point of not staring at our captors in an obvious manner; doing so earned you a jab from a shock prod or lash from the neuro-whip. Instead I snuck glances whenever I felt their attention was elsewhere. Most of the other kids looked meekly at their own feet or stared lamely into space.

The other two male assassins were smaller in stature than my captor, but probably no less dangerous. Same with the sole female assassin; she was slender as a reed, but the way she moved screamed of perfect body control and wiry muscle. All three had body armour and cloaks that were variations over the same type their leader employed.

By observing them I quickly concluded that just one of them would have sufficed as an escort for our misshapen group of lost boys and forlorn girls. If we could have attacked jointly, and without care for injury or death, we might have taken one of them down. But we were neither in a position to coordinate anything, nor willing to risk our lives for one another. So instead we followed meekly along, each child trapped inside its own little bubble of agonizing reality.

We proceeded to an area not dissimilar from the ones used to process hordes of grox into pieces of meat for the tables of the sufficiently wealthy. There were pens and sluices, machinery, cybernetic servitors, and foul-looking overseers. My rational mind told me they would not have brought us all the way up here to be butchered, but that didn't prevent my heart from fluttering a bit.

They did not, however, make fine filets, boneless steaks, or minced meat out of us. Instead we were stripped, searched, shaved, washed, bathed in antiseptic fluid, and inoculated.

The servitors assigned to the job weren't all that bad; they were coarse, heavy-handed brutes, but they just did their job, methodically and thoroughly. The human overseers were worse. There were beatings to go around and some of the recruits received extra attention - of the entirely unwanted and entirely unpleasant type.

Processing took a while, so I had time to study my surroundings and think things through. We were not the first batch of kids to come this way. In fact there had been another group here recently. The servitors hadn't had time to clean up between sessions. So there were more kids like us on this ship. I didn't know what that meant exactly, but there is a certain comfort in knowing that your fate is not unique.

The fact that they had bothered to fly us up into orbit and had gone to such trouble to improve our personal hygiene, made me fairly confident we were not going to be killed out of hand. We were going to be used for something, that much I had figured out. That begged an important question: What would a group of interstellar assassins want with a whole bunch of children? Most of the answers I came up with were quite appalling - so I quit thinking about it and focused on the now.

Eventually we were issued with coarse brownish robes that reached to mid-calf. Finally a thick metal wire with a self-contracting mechanism was fastened around our necks. No threats were spoken, but the implication was obvious: Behave, or die by auto-strangulation.

We got a demonstration when two of the boys started whispering to one another. Soon they were twitching on the deck, clawing futilely at the wires around their necks. Our merciful captors released them before they asphyxiated. The point had been hammered in. None of us would speak again unless bidden to do so. Suited me just fine. I had absolutely no desire to talk to any of my fellow captives.

After the processing chamber we were herded into a very wide, very tall corridor that we followed for quite some distance. A kilometre at the very least, maybe a bit longer The size and length of it made me conclude that this was one of the ship's main thoroughfares. The grand size of the corridor made me think it was used not only for personnel, but also for cargo. That meant we were deep in the bowels of the ship, level with the great main cargo holds.

The majority of mid-sized STC transports have two spinal accessway that reach most of the way from the main enginarium section, to the bow of the ship. The smaller one runs topside and is used mainly for people and light utility transport. The larger one runs through the bowels of the ship and is used to move cargo and bulk equipment around. Both thoroughfares can of course be completely sealed off - in case of board or depressurization for example - with massive bulkhead doors at regular intervals.

If the ship is big enough there will be other arterial passages handling the flow of crew, equipment, and supplies to distant parts of the vessel. And regardless of the size of the ship it contains a myriad of secondary passages, rooms, and utility spaces - even the smallest voidship is a veritable warren, consisting of kilometres upon kilometres of corridors and other spaces where a man might fit through.

But I digress. We kept to the main passage. The lighting was universally poor down here, and most of the visible surfaces were either badly corroded or otherwise obviously old and poorly maintained. I got the distinct impression that the ship was very old indeed, probably having thousands of years of service behind it.

I had this vague idea that we had marched towards the stern of the ship. When we passed through a massive gateway, into a cathedral-like space deep within the ship, I knew I was right. We had arrived at the great juncture where the forward main hull joins with the rear enginarium section. If we continued walking we would reach the power torus - and after that the enigmatic warp drive compartment and more massive, but less mysterious, real-space drives. Above us the command superstructure would be rising, crowned with a halo of sensor blisters, aethyric arrays, and Deus Mechanicus knows what else a voidship needs to operate.

This was the end station. There were two hundred plus children and adolescents already present. They were mustered into groups, most of them numbering between twenty and thirty members. We caught on quickly and moved to join them. Those who were too quick were lashed for their presumptuousness. Those too slow were softly choked by the wire-collars; not enough to make them pass out, but sufficient to drive the point home.

My vigilance rewarded me with an insight into the operation of the wire-collars: They were extremely simple devices, directed by small control rods the assassins kept close at hand. To punish one of us they had to hold the rod and point it at a collar. I could not make out the actual controls on the rod, but I figured they were simple. The rods didn't appear to have a very long range, ten meters tops. They also weren't very accurate - one time I saw an assassin point it at a girl that weren't paying attention, but it was the boy next to her that got choked.

This was knowledge might come in handy later. If I was able to slip away unnoticed at some point they wouldn't be able to remote-choke me. I was concerned that the collar might contain a locator beacon, however, like the one the IGs had strapped on me. If it did running would be futile. I had to wait and learn more.

I was in the middle of my twenty-strong group, staying out of sight, out of mind. I kept on observing. We'd been here only for a few hours and already our captors were revealing their secrets, repeating themselves, falling into predictable patterns of operation. Static patterns.

The man who had brought me in took up position in front of our group. I already suspected he was the leader of the team. Now my suspicions were confirmed. The other three assassins peeled away to linger at the back. It reminded me a bit of the 57th Lo's morning muster. The assassins seemed to be organized along military-hierarchal lines.

A heavy-set man of middling height stepped out of the shadows. He too wore black, but went without a cloak and his armour was unlike that of the others. His was made of black-on-black scales that seemed to flex and change shape as he moved. The strange rippling effect was almost hypnotic. I later learned it had been made of scavenged xenos equipment that had a cameleoline-equivalent covering worked into the material.

He carried no gear or weapons, save a slender baton in his left hand. His face was uncovered, revealing a man of middle age with craggy features, cunning eyes, and a cruel smile.

"Adepts of the Hand, attend me!" his deep and rich baritone lashed out across the great open space, augmented by unseen vox-speakers.

A roll call commenced, with each group captain calling out his name and how many recruits he had brought as tribute to the Hand.

My group was the last to arrive and the last to be called.

"Adept Murash, report," the strangely armoured man called out.

Now my captor had a name: Murash.

"Prefect Malachite, I have twenty-three candidates for you," our captor exclaimed.

Malachite. I instinctively knew that this man was another Jons - a person that could make me or break me.

"For me? For the Veiled Hand you mean," Malachite answered with a rebuke.

"I am humbled, Lord Malachite," our captor replied with great deference. "I put my life in your hands."

"Don't be daft Murash." He was brusquely dismissed with a curt gesture. "Now, attend me," Malachite added, turning to inspect the group.

Murash the Ball-Kicker fell in next to Malachite as the elder assassin started his inspection of our group. He'd done something similar with the other groups, so I wasn't alarmed.

I didn't see the blade that made the cut, but the boy in front of me suddenly grabbed his throat as blood fountained from a deep and wide gash. After a few seconds of frantic gurgling he toppled forward.

Malachite continued his inspection without missing a stride. He stopped in front of a girl standing next to me. She was a few years my senior, about the same age as my treacherous sister. Pretty enough that I had noticed, even in my current state.

"This one is useless to me. She has other qualities though. Give her to the officers." Her screams of protest were quickly strangled by the metal wire around her neck, and she was half dragged, half carried away.

I was next. He struck me in the side of the head. I saw the blow coming, but had no time to duck, even had I wanted to. I blacked out for a moment. I came to myself on the deck, head spinning. Malachite was standing over me. I fought to get back on my feet. Nausea threatened to overcome me, but I persisted. Slowly I rose and resumed my place. Malachite towered above me, as if standing in judgment. It lasted but a moment. Then he moved on, leaving me standing there, alive.

The two men continued their inspection. I became conscious of the hole in the ranks in front of me. When the worst of the dizziness had passed, I took a long step forward, taking care not to trip over the dead boy or slip in his blood. Murash and Malachite completed their circuit and returned to stand in front of the formation, not two steps away from me.

Malachite. "You must learn to count Murash. I see only twenty-one."

"Yes, Prefect. Only twenty-one. I will do better next time," Murash replied in an even voice.

Malachite, sounding slightly less condescending. "There will be no next time Murash. You brown-nosing has finally paid off," he said, just loud enough for us in the front row to hear. "It has been made known to me by astropathic transmission that Archon Ghaela has demanded your services. As soon as we return to the Spire you are to abase yourself before her and beg her to take you in. She will accept and then you can waste what microscopic talent you have in her service."

Murash made no sound, merely bowed his head in deference. Malachite returned to his position in front of the assembled companies.

"Listen up you little maggots!" When he saw that he had our attention, he continued. "Rejoice little ones! Rejoice, for you are no longer rebellious citizens of Protasia! Rejoice, for you are no longer heretics!"

When we didn't seem particularly happy, merely confused, he deigned to explain.

"Lord Governor Grimes, Imperial Commander of Protasia, has pardoned you. He has also sold you to the Veiled Hand. You are, all of you, payment for services rendered to the Lord Governor by the assassins of the Hand. More specifically the purging of the Governor's enemies, such as the rebels infesting Thira and other compliant cities."

His voice become even louder, close to shouting, but not quite.

"You belong to the Veiled Hand, from now until the end of time. I am Prefect Malachite, and I am your lord and master." He made a dramatic gesture. "Your fate is to train. To train hard in the hope of becoming the next little assassins of the Veiled Hand" He paced around a little before continuing. "Chances are that only one in five of you will make it. Perhaps as few as one in ten. Depends on the quality of the raw material. In your case I'm not overly impressed." He made another little pause to allow the information to sink in. "I can hear you thinking: And those who do not make it, what of them? I'll tell you. They end up dead."

Poor odds indeed, but still better than Protasia.

"If you think that sounds harsh, think on this: Those that try to run...none of them make it. Not ever. But you are welcome to try. Hunting runaways is good sport for the rest of the recruits."

And with that he stepped away into the shadows and was gone.

In the reading chamber one of the servo-skulls descends to eye level, partially blinding you with the glare from it illuminators. You are forced to raise one hand to shield your eyes. Has it detected something? Have you behaved in a manner the auditors consider borderline? You are sure you haven't. Your current mental arrangement is very robust and you're quite satisfied with how the compartment running your physical body is handling things. After a handful of long seconds the drone rises again. You lower your hand and resume pretending to read.

"Emotional spillover," Haxtes says inside your interactive compartment.

"I don't think so," you reply, "I have immersion contained at just the level I desire."

"No you don't. The part where Malachite appeared; that got deeper than you had intended. The lines between me and you blurred, past and present threatened to become one," Haxtes explains.

Even assuming he's right you're not getting into an argument over your mental arrangement.

"At any rate I didn't mean spillover into your logical and observational processes. I meant into your physical mien," he concludes.

"You mean that your emotions are spilling over into my body?" you try not to sound incredulous. "I find that hard to believe."

"Only very faintly and not directly - it's more like a domino effect. It happens when you clench up so hard. This is a psychic recording, which by definition is heavy with emotional and pseudo-emotional content. It has to go somewhere. Right now it has nowhere to go, so it bubbles up to the surface whether you want it to or not."

"Do I sense a suggestion here?" you say with a hint of mockery in your tone.

"No suggestions. Only general helpfulness. You don't want to attract any unwanted attention, do you? Haxtes ask, pretending to be friendliness itself.

"I'll see if I can come up with a place to put the spillover," you say curtly.

"Another compartment?" Haxtes asks, "that would be, what, the sixth? Sounds a bit exhausting to me."

Unfortunately he's right. Six compartments would be pushing it. And it's not just the number that matters. It's their complexity and the manner in which they interact. With the temporal compression going...no, he's right, you cannot do it.

You may have to rethink and rebuild you mental architecture - again. But you can't do that and maintain the connection with the tome at the same time; it would be both impractical and imprudent. You'll think up something tonight.

For now you'll dive a little deeper, immerse yourself a bit more. You're not entirely comfortable with that, but it beats being exposed and having to fight your way out of the Librarium.


	55. CHAPTER 43 - VOIDSMAN

The ship, whose name was Rubrum Dei Dextera - the Red Right Hand of God - was quite old and rather large, by my best aestimates it measured in excess of three kilometres from the forward sensor spires to the aft plasma baffles. That made it almost as longer as the smaller Imperial Navy cruisers, and much wide across the beam. It was an old bulk freighter, which made not only fat, but slow. Not the best type of ship for a clan of assassins perhaps, but then again voidships are rather hard to come by.

The Red Right Hand did have one major advantage over sleeker craft; it was utterly inconspicuous. Old tramp freighters like the Rubrum Dei Dextera constituted the mainstay of the Chartist fleets - the contracted vessels that form the core of any intersector merchant marine - that plied the trade lanes of the Calixis sector. Almost certainly it engaged in a little trade on the side. It seemed a reasonable way to keep the ship's cover intact, and generate revenue at the same time.

Be that as it may. Our main concern was that the ship was big, poorly maintained, and somewhat understaffed. Enter the new recruits. We were put to work on a million and one tasks: There was always cleaning to be done, light maintenance work, like painting and hammering corrosion, lots of carrying and sorting, labouring in the mess, that sort of thing. It might not seem like such harsh chores, but believe me, they had us running ragged. There was little time for rest. A few brief breaks to drink stale water and feed from the slop buckets. Nights that were entirely too short.

They kept us too exhausted for anyone to even think about doing something stupid. Anyone but me. For my own part I managed to retain enough energy to remain inquisitive. Essentially I did exactly what was required of me - and nothing more. I was good at not being noticed, good at being in the right place at the right time, good at sneaking a little more food and rest than the others.

So rather than walk around in a dazed haze all day, I kept my eyes peeled and ears to the ground - as much as I dared. I picked up a lot of tidbits about the ship and the crew. Where they had been, where we were heading - apparently towards the Veiled Hand's chapter house on Malfi - what was what, where I was allowed to go, and what not to do. Who amongst the ratings were reasonably humane, and who were as likely to smother you as talk to you.

I even learned a thing or two about the Veiled Hand. Not much, because the crew was reluctant to talk when we were near - and probably knew little to begin with. But I did get the impression that the Veiled Hand was one of the deadliest assassin cults in the Calixis sector. That lifted my spirits a good deal. I decided that my capture would actually turn out to be a good thing. I'm not sure how many of my fellow recruits felt the same way.

At night we were confined to our communal quarters. We were not supposed to leave them. The doors were routinely locked after the lights out signal had been sounded. Keeping the Shadow of Thira locked up requires a bit more than a closed door though. After the others had collapsed of exhaustion I would drag my weary body into the utility conduits and do a little prowling of my own.

Our journey to Malfi wasn't long enough for me to explore the entirety of the ship - that would have taken years - but that wasn't really the point. The point was not sitting around. The point was not being static. The point was trying to do something to improve my situation.

I ended up finding a nice, unused spot where no one from the crew ever came. There are some of those on every Imperial ship, spaces and places that have fallen out of use and been forgotten. It is inevitable; ships routinely run kilometres in length, and are hundreds and hundreds of meters tall and wide. That's at least a few million cubic meters of space, divided amongst scores of decks, and hundreds of compartments and subdivisions. And that's before counting the utility spaces that aren't really part of the main decks.

In my case it was an area in between two cargo holds that had been walled off at some distant point in the past. I could sympathize with whoever had done the walling off - the place I had found was cramped and useless, not fit to be utilized for anything but collect dust and debris. When the wall had been erected, the space behind had been forgotten, until I came along.

Getting there was simple. I scampered up to the main air vent in our sleeping area, peeled the rusted ventilation grate open, just enough for me to slip through, and entered the duct system. I was small and scrawny; despite some narrow sections I fitted through readily enough. The only obstacles to my progress were some air fans. All but one had stopped working ages ago. The functioning one I disabled. The air in out quarters became marginally staler after that. I do not think anyone noticed.

I located several other access points, which enabled me to use the ducting system to escape our sleeping chambers and get into the wider world of the voidship's many corridors and compartments. One of access points opened into the walled-off space. It became my secret hideout. I would collect odds and ends I found and bring it there, much like I had done in Thira. I didn't really think I could bring anything with me when we debarked, but it was still nice to have something to do. And if the opportunity for escape presented itself, I would have a bolthole ready.

After a few weeks I learned how to trap the void-rats that lived between decks. The meat of the foul things was stringy and difficult to chew, but it tasted like heaven compared to the slop we usually got fed.

During one nightly foray I came across Larissa, the girl that had been taken from our group and assigned to whore for the crew. She'd started out at the captain's table. Now she was the property of the second officer. She seemed happy enough with her fate, which I guess is why Malachite cut her from the herd in the first place.

For want of something better to do, I started keeping an eye on her. It took a while, eight or ten days I think, but I eventually got in enough observation time to learn her routines. Acting upon this knowledge I went to see her one night. I wasn't out to kill the poor thing. She had done nothing to cross me and I had nothing to gain by harming her. I did, however, have something to gain my scaring the hell out of her. I'd turn her to my cause. Intimidate her into providing me with information, food, and equipment. She'd be my secret mole, my ace in the sleeve. That's what I told myself, anyway.

She was at her most vulnerable when the second officer was on night shift duty. Given his position that happened a lot - the captain and the first officer alternated the day shifts, and the second and third officer got to share the night shifts. Larissa would be sleeping, securely locked inside the second officer's quarters, shackled to the bed. Second Officer MazLanlan trusted her no more than he trusted his fellow officers.

The air ducts couldn't carry me into the room - they were much too small, even for skinny me. And I had no way of getting past the door once it had been locked. That left me with only one viable option: To go through the door before it was locked.

The plan thus formulated, I began my watch. On those nights I was able to slip away from my fellow recruits, I would come to skulk around the second officer's quarters. On my third attempt I spotted him as he entered his quarters. He didn't lock up behind him. I took a moment to listen at the door. It didn't take long before I could hear him go into the next room to greet sweet Larissa. I didn't want to be caught eavesdropping outside the door of an officers, so I made a little circuit to pass the time. I went back, listened again, found the situation inside to be more to my liking, quickly opened the door, and slipped inside.

When Boudan MazLanan left his cabin an hour later he locked up from the outside as he used to. I waited a few minutes before letting myself out of the cupboard I had hidden inside. I made an effort to be quiet. I listened carefully, hearing Larissa's breathing from the next room. Resting, but not asleep. I waited some more. I heard her relieve herself in a chamber pot. She went back to bed. Five minutes later her breathing had become shallower and more even.

I went into the bedroom. The lights had been turned low, but my eyes had longs since grown accustomed to the dark. I moved over to stand by the side of the bed. Her right hand had indeed been shackled to the blockhead with a longish silvery chain. She could get up and move around the sleeping chamber, but she couldn't get away.

My hand reached for my self-made shiv. Suddenly I grew uncertain. What was I doing? There was cold steel in my hand now. What did I hope to gain by coming here? I let the point of the blade drop towards her navel. It would be so easy to kill her. The pain would wake her, and she'd see me standing there, blade in hand. She wouldn't realize she was dying until it was too late. And I would be there to see her go. Was this why I had come, to kill for the sake of killing? Had I deluded myself? Had I only come for blood?

Yes. Yes! What a fool I was! She neither would, nor could, provide me with anything, save her lifeblood. I could pressure her all I wanted, but it would be futile. She's either rat on me and I would be screwed. Or she wouldn't, in which case she couldn't provide me with anything even remotely useful. All that was left was to me was the kill.

I looked longingly down at her exposed flesh. I wanted her dead so badly my knife-hand started shaking. But the rational part of my mind told me it was a very, very bad idea. If I killed her, it would cause quite the ruckus. And I had no idea how my position would be when the dust settled. It was not worth it simply to see her die. There would be other deaths to sate my appetites. Even backed by rational though, it required an epic feat of willpower for me to slowly back away and hide myself in the cabinet again.

"Cute," you say.

"Now, that," Haxtes replies, "is something I've never been called before."

"So your murderous urges were still there," you continue. "Not that I'm surprised to hear it. What does surprise me is your level of insight seems to have increased. I didn't see that coming."

Haxtes smiles grimly. "Now you're just being mean Marcus. I would have to wise up eventually, or I wouldn't be here."

"Tell me more about your nightly routines," you say. "I'm a bit curious. Even if you did manage to conserve some energy, I don't see how you could go on the prowl for hours every night without exhausting yourself."

"I could tell you I've never needed much sleep," Haxtes replies, "but I think you've already made up your opinion."

You nod. "Yes, I think you were engaging in psychic shenanigans again."

"I could have been using some stimms," Haxtes replies without hint of inflection. "I developed a taste for them during my years in Thira. Especially after I plundered that poor apothecary."

"Well, did you?" you press.

"Did what?" Haxtes replies.

"The stimms."

"Not really, no. I was balancing on the edge of the abyss. Right there, in the heart of the Warp," Haxtes replies.

"Not a wise thing to do," you conclude.

"Definitely not. But I didn't know it at the time. And I've never been particularly wise," Haxtes adds.

"But you were screened upon acceptance as an acolyte and all was well. I get it," you say with a degree of sarcasm. "Get on with the story please."


	56. CHAPTER 44 - NATURAL SELECTION

We mostly stayed in the groups we had arrived in, but sometimes we got mixed up with the other teams. When that happened there would inevitably be gossiping. That's how we learned of the purges. Of boys and girls who couldn't keep up. Or those that were suddenly and without explanation dragged away screaming, never to be seen again.

The only two casualties in my group thus far were the two Malachite had taken care of one our first day; the boy with the slit throat, and the girl Larissa that got reassigned for special shipboard duties. That my own dear Murash and his three murderous friends were any kinder than the other group captains I couldn't quite believe. One of our four guardians was always present, guarding and watching. If one of us proved useless, they would cut him from the herd, I was sure of it.

That left only one explanation that I could see. With just one glance Malachite had seen who the weakest ones were and spared them the trouble. At the same time he had sent a message to Murash and the other assassins: I'm the king of this particular hill.

I also guessed at the reason behind his blow to my head; he had been sending me a message as well. I know what you are boy and I'm watching you. After that realization I determined to be extra careful whenever Malachite was around and not push my newfound nightly freedom too hard.

We lost our third member during the sixth shipboard week. We were clearing away corrosion in preparation for a paint job. Just hours before we had completed our second warp leg and were in-system somewhere - I had no clue where. The ship lurched and shuddered, violently and without warning. Warning claxons bleared and there was general confusion. When I looked up I saw Cassilus, a boy two years my senior from Thira proper, lying pinned beneath a corroded support column than had snapped and fallen.

Our overseer of the day wasn't anywhere to be seen, so my group was gripped by a sense of uncertainty. Nothing unexpected had happened to upset our little universe before, and now that it had happened we were like little chickens separated from their hen.

Malachite appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Taking advantage of our confusion to make a dramatic entrance, no doubt. He loomed us over, radiating calm and confidence. His very presence stilled the storm in our hearts.

Our focus thus restored, the assassin gave a little speech to illuminate our minds. "The ship has come under attack from pirates. This system has been a hotbed for such activity for generations. They fired a warning shot across our bow, but in their incompetent eagerness they may have gotten a little too close. But fear not, the captain is in communication with the pirate leader. This mess will soon be sorted out."

He seemed to imply that no pirate in his right mind would attack the Veiled Hand.

Malachite moved over to the fallen boy. He didn't quite bend down to examine him, just cocked his head to one side and looked him over. "This one has too good technical aptitude to waste. Ashul," that was the name of today's hated guardian, he had finally caught up with us, "have him taken to the medicae bay and fitted with replacement legs. Then reassign him for permanent shipboard duty."

So there was a way out that didn't involve death. Get crippled - and if you had useful skills they might still make use of you. It didn't really appeal to me. I doubted I had any secondary uses. Besides I wanted to be an assassin, not an enginseer's apprentice.

We didn't lose anyone else for nearly two weeks. During our final warp leg to Malfi, however, we lost three more from our group in just a few days, bringing us down to seventeen. None of the new dropouts survived, making Cassilus fate unique.

One boy actually had the gall to try to attack Ashul with a shiv. He might have fared better if he had had some help. But Micor was like me, a loner. So Ashul blocked his weak attack, broke his wrist and cut him a second smile beneath the first. Then we got to take a break as we watched the boy die and his blood pool on the floor. Ashul dipped his right hand in his blood and that was that. I felt strangely calm and content. I also had a new shiv.

The second was another boy, even younger than me. One day he had simply had enough. He just jumped over the metal railing of our current assignment and plummeted head-first into the waiting metal floor twenty meters below. The dead boy got a lot of posthumous slag over that one - it cost us an hour of precious rest time to clean up the mess.

I could not quite figure out why he had done it. Six weeks of toil had made the rest of us hard and lean. We received marginally better food and longer rest periods. We were less weary now, so why end his life when things were looking up? I shook my head and put it out of my mind.

The last one to go was one of only three remaining girls in our group. If I recall correctly her name was Diana. She definitely wasn't Protasian, but I had never bothered to inquire how or why she'd been captured on my world.

Now that Micor and Dive Boy were gone, I was the only one that didn't really belong to the one of the two factions that had formed within our little group. I guess some of the juves took offense at that. Or maybe they just wanted to do a little bullying to satisfy their wretched souls.

Rather than wait for something unpleasant to happen to me - like it had on Protasia, when Jax and his friends had ganged up on me - I decided to teach them a lesson of my own. Diana wasn't a much of a looker, but she was young and eager, and had earned her place as the companion of Helian, one of the faction leaders.

I waited until Diana and the juve leader were coupling during sleep time: It meant they were a distance away from the rest of the group. Plus anyone keeping guard would be sleepy and complacent. I moved in from behind while she was on top, sliding my shiv along her thigh and slicing through her left-hand femoral artery without either of them noticing I was there.

I shoved her aside before she even registered the pain. She gave a startled yelp, and then started screaming in earnest. I quickly put sharp metal against the base of Helian's erect member and looked him in the eye, putting on my best predatory Shadow-of-Thira grin for good measure. He became deathly still.

By the time the rest of his lackeys had arrived, Diana's screams had turned into a begging whisper. I didn't deign to look at her, instead holding her boyfriend in my power for a few moments longer. I slowly removed the shiv. They did nothing. I moved slowly away. Still they did nothing. I stopped by Diana's side and dipped my right hand in her blood. I held it aloft for all of them to see. "Rubrum Dei Dextera" I said softly as I backed away into the shadows.

They did not bother me again, nor did they rat on me to our masters. Not even when Murash pressured us over the dead girl, did anyone speak up. For some reason I got the impression the assassin was rather pleased. He didn't kill or maim anyone, he just warned us not to let it happen again.

You return to that space inside the tome where you can interact with its guardians. Not to the ring of light, however, but to the darkness beyond. Then you wait.

"Hello Marcus," Vern's voice says from somewhere close by.

"Hello Vern," you reply, even as you adjust your senses to perceive his psychic presence.

"You called me?" he asks, but it's not really a question.

"I did," you reply. "I wanted to inquire about this 'Word of Light'. Haxtes seemed unusually agitated when last we spoke, so I wanted to keep it private."

"You mean his rebuke? Think nothing of it. I was out of line. I had no right to question him or his motives. My manners are poor and sometimes I forget my place."

"I see," you say, pretending to mull over something, "but since you're already here: my question still stands."

Vern nods sagely. "The Word of Light is a highly dangerous, highly contagious, heretical faith. The kind of cult that piques the interest of the Ordo Malleus, if you catch my drift. That is the reason I got a bit agitated."

"I see," you reply encouragingly.

Vern willingly elaborates. "The origins of the Word can be traced all the way back to the time of the Horus Heresy, back to the dawn of the Age of the Imperium. Its roots are so old there are some who claim it predates the Imperial Creed."

"Does it?" you ask.

"I wouldn't know," Vern admits. I wasn't around at the time, and reliable sources from that period are rather hard to come by. What is certain is that the Word was penned by the hand of Lorgar, Primarch of the 17th Legion of Adeptus Astartes, the Imperial Heralds. Or should I call them by their more popular name, the Word Bearers?"

"Go on," you urge.

"It is thought that Lorgar encouraged the spread of the Word of Light to establish a fifth column on Imperial worlds: apocalyptic Chaos cults, ready to spring into action if their secret Word Bearer masters demand it. There is no mention of Lorgar or Astartes in the Word, but it is rather cunningly put together. It would be no problem at all for the Primarch - or one of his Dark Apostles - to appear on a world and call upon these cults to aid his unholy work. All they would need to do was to claim to be the Prophet of the Light, come to herald the End Times."

"So that," you conclude, "is why you got a bit agitated with Haxtes for not mentioning this 'trivial' connection. It wasn't trivial at all, it was momentous. It changed everything you thought you knew about Protasia. And your master had wilfully withheld this from you, his savant."

"Yes," Vern says gravely.

You let him fade away and return your attention to Haxtes' story.

The rest of the journey was less eventful. I stayed with the group for the most part, not wishing to risk any reprisals. My fellow aspirants caused me no trouble. Four more weeks, a little over ten weeks in total, divided between three warp journeys, plus the inevitable out-/insystem legs. And then we were there: Malfi.


	57. CHAPTER 45 - ABSALOM

Malfi: Hive World. Subsector capital. Military and commercial nexus for the Rimward territories. Malfi: World of Many Doors, Wicked Lies, and Endless Vice. A cesspool of corruption and decadence, like none other in the Calixis sector.

I knew little of the place before I came there. I had heard of it of course - it is one of the major worlds of Calixis after all. Up until the war I had received a classical Protasian education, meaning I knew a great deal about a great many places. My knowledge of the planet was, however, entirely of the academic kind. I knew nothing that really mattered.

Malfi, as I am sure you are aware, is a semitropical, gloomy world of overbuilt hives and habitation ledges, lying some two hundred light-years, almost directly rimward, of the sector capital of Scintilla. Malfi is by far the most heavily populated of Calixis' hive worlds, with an official population figure approaching the three-hundred-billion mark, more than twice that of Scintilla. With its supra-continental hives and eradication of natural landscape, Malfi resembles a Segmentum Solar hive world far more than any of the other planets in the Calixis sector.

Malfi is a world with a grudge. It believes it should be the sector's capital world, and venomously protests the supremacy of Scintilla. Given its great age, majestic architecture, effete noble caste, and vast population, Malfi's claim to eminence seems reasonable enough at first glance.

Politics and demographics are fickle mistresses, however: Early regimes, following the Lord Angevin's crusade, made their headquarters on Malfi, but moved on as Scintilla was better placed to provide a centre of effective governance for the sector. After more than two millennia the Malfian peerage is still mortally offended - visitors are urged to approach the subject with extreme caution.

The planet remains the main manpower and manufacturing pool of the rimward territories of the sector. In terms of industrial efficiency it lags somewhat behind; it is surpassed by the sector capital in terms gross planetary product by more than eighty-five percent. Where the Scintillan creed is industriousness in all things, the Malfian hives are notorious for their vast caste of chronically unemployed citizens. There is a Scintillan saying that attempts to describe this difference between the two rival worlds: Half the manpower, twice the output.

While there is some truth in that old saying, it doesn't tell the whole story. The Lathes must take some of the blame. With the greatest forge worlds for several sectors around sitting right next door, there is nothing that Malfi can produce, that the Lathes cannot produce better and more effectively. This cruel trick of astrography and Warp dynamics has consigned the manufactorums of Malfi to a life in the shadows. They produce only that which the Archmagi of the Lathes do not deign to make. Which is still a whole lot - including an endless variety of household supplies, personal weapons, ammunition, and other things of low complexity - but very little that makes an impact on sector trade as a whole.

Thus, despite its continued efforts, Malfi remains a border world, located at the very edge of Imperial space, politically marginalized and forced into a life of relative economic irrelevance. The lords of Malfi must satisfy themselves with commanding the Malfian subsector, ruling the territories rimward of Scintilla, forever toiling in the shadow of the sector capital.

But the day will come, the powers of Malfi believe, when they will rise to command all of the Calixis sector and beyond. To this end they put their faith in furthering the cause of the rimward territories, including seeking new ways to extend their influence into places like the Koronus Expanse, the Drusus Marches, and the Periphery. Even the distant and war-torn Jericho Reach figures in their more ambitious plans.

A native Malfian would agree with none of my assessments. He would swear by the Throne, and say that it is only the ingenuity and persistence of the Malfians that allow them to do as well as they do. To a pure-blooded Malfian it seems that the entire sector conspires to hold them down, to deny them their rightful place in the poison-shrouded glare of their brilliant sun.

Be that as it may. What I have not yet mentioned is that Malfi is - and this may be the real reason the sector rulers passed it over - a place of the most infernal intrigue. It is impossible to count the courtly factions vying for power and the ear of the Matriarch of Malfi. Every act and motion of Malfian life is about dissemblance and intrigue. Been seen with the wrong crowd or say something inappropriate, and you may be damned to years of squabbling diplomacy and sudden duels. Entering Malfian society, even the lower levels of society, one enters a world of complexity and deceit from which few emerge alive and unscathed. Again; a native Malfian would neither recognize nor agree with the picture I just painted. To him the lies, the intrigue, and the masquerade are part of what and who he is. In fact, could he chose, he would not have it any other way.

The Veiled Hand maintained several chapter houses throughout the Calixis sector, but their headquarters was located in a nameless secondary spire in the Absalom hive. Funny thing that: Absalom was the name of the ark-ship that brought the settlers to Protasia. But the Malfians had their own legends of a ship named Absalom, and their greatest city was named in its honour. One Absalom had founded my birthworld, now another would become the cradle of my new life.

From the centre of Absalom rises a great orbital spire, reaching nearly sixty kilometres into the air, all the way up beyond the stratosphere. It is not a true beanstalk, like the one that connects Hive Tarsus to the great Scintillan orbitals, just a hugely oversized hive spire. Who built it, and how, was a complete mystery in the 41st Millennium. It had certainly been there when Angevin's forces enforced Unity upon the lords of Malfi. It was at least ten thousand years old. Some said sixty thousand, based upon tests supposedly run by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Which sounded a bit daft to me; it would put its construction at around a time when man was playing with fire and stone tools. If it was sixty thousand years old, then man hadn't built it, and simple logic dictated it had therefore been crafted by a xenos species. Which of course the Imperium would never admit to, so that was that, case closed. Personally I believe man built it during the Dark Age of Technology, using techniques long lost, making it no older than twenty thousand years. At the time I didn't much care. It was there. And that was all that mattered.

Around the spire itself a great hive city rose, looking every bit the human ant-hill. It was positively the biggest thing I've ever laid eyes on, a mountain of metal, , crawling with human life, so big it put every real mountain I had ever seen to shame. If the majestic Mastari Range of my childhood had been placed next to Absalom, it would have looked like nothing more than a series of foothills. There is no place quite like Absalom in the Calixis sector.

The orbital spire and the core hive is said to house in excess of sixteen billion people. If you count the entire hive structure, the number is closer to thirty billion. That's the official numbers anyway; like with the planetary population I think they've greatly underaestimated the number of vagabonds, vagrants, and general underhive ner-do-wells. Whatever numbers you go with - the hive is big as hell. It would measure up nicely against the hive-stacks of any Segmentum Solar world.

The citizens of Absalom have another, less legendary name for their hometown: the Circus.

The central hive spire is ringed by a wheel of great, but still lesser, hive cities. In the days after the Imperial reunification with Malfi, a great project was undertaken to tie the hives closer together. A great web of impossibly strong macro-cables was strung between them, until it looked like a multi-layered spider's web. Later still, when the demands of the Imperium had caused the skies of Malfi to become bloated and toxic, the outer layers were covered over with lightweight, yet resilient panes of transparent polymers.

The end result is that Absalom hive looks like the biggest fucking circus tent this side of Terra: A huge pole rising in the centre, with lesser poles around the perimeter, and great multi-coloured canvas sheets covering the whole thing. In Malfi's case the colouring runs in shades of grime, filth, and toxic waste. Inside you find the Calixis sector's most infamous dog and pony show; the never-ending cacophony of intrigue and innuendo that is the Malfian way of life.

You are indeed familiar with Malfi. But like Haxtes pointed out, only in scholarly terms. And some bits and pieces acquired by hearsay; secrets softly whispered in the corridors of the Lucid Court during your stay there. You've never been to Malfi though. Important it might be in Calixian terms, but like Haxtes said, it sits at the very edge of the galaxy, eclipsed in all ways by the sector capital of Scintilla. Not much has changed in that regard since Haxtes was up and about.

The Malfian sub remains firmly under Malfian control, but its other ambitions have largely been denied. The Drusus Marches have slipped out of their fingers: Scintilla has driven a wedge of loyal systems though the Marches, right up to Port Wander. You can see that Protasia fits quite nicely into the greater picture, as does the reclamation of the Kapellan warzone, and the great civilizing efforts on the Tygress frontier. The Tranch - Spectoris - Sentinel warp route has become the premier highway into the Koronus Expanse - and the Jericho Reach: From Sentinel you can reach Protasia and from Protasia you can either go directly to Port Wander, or by way of the Navy watch stations. To spinward the situation is little better: Through Scintillan machinations the Malfian Rim Command was allowed to become heavily involved in the Periphery, fighting rebel pocket empires, orks, Eldar - and more recently Chaos reavers pouring out of the Screaming Vortex. It has become a quagmire Rim Command is unable to pull out of. Honour - and past failures - demands victory.

The lords of Scintilla have effectively isolated Malfi; politically, commercially, and militarily. Keeping your rivals down is good for maintaining the status quo, but hardly an effective means of ruling the sector as a whole. If pushed hard enough, could the Malfian subsector become another hotspot of dissent? A Rimward Front, to mirror the Spinward one?

Idle speculation aside: If Malfi and Akakios-Protasia share the same genesis myth, the great colony ship Absalom, and the same root language, chances are they are indeed connected. But is Protasia really Malfi's First Colony - or is there another explanation? Haxtes seemed to hint at the latter. You'll make a point of finding out. Perhaps Vern knows something.

"A difficult question to answer, young Marcus," Vern says, sounding thoughtful. "The hive-university that trained me had some lore pertaining to the relationship between Akakios-Protasia and Malfi. It indicated that Protasia was indeed a Malfian colony. Protasia was colonized from Malfi in the Dark Age of Technology, but contact was lost during the Age of Strife, and not re-established until the Angevin Crusade. Other sources I've cross-referenced have corroborated this theory, but I'm sure you appreciate the difficulty of working with historical data that's twenty thousand years old."

"But Haxtes claimed the elders of Protasia had another view?" you supply.

"Haxtes claims a lot of things about his homeworld that cannot be proven in any way," Vern retorts. "But in this case he may be right, I have to admit that. During the course of our time together, I came across a veritable throve of esoteric Calixian lore, collected by a Rogue Trader no less, that told the same story: Protasia wasn't colonized from Malfi, instead Akakios was established as a splinter colony at the same time Malfi was settled."

"And this Rogue Trader, would he be connected to the Madien of Golgenna?" you ask, wanting pursue the Rogue Trader line of inquiry, hoping it might shed some light on the Maiden and 'Rogue Trader Jaxel Guilliman'.

"But well, yes," Vern replies smugly. "I got it from the collection Captain Corben had gathered in his family's estates on Quaddis." He falls silent.

"And?" you press.

"I cannot divulge any more. Not at present. It is forbidden. You'll have to wait for Haxtes to reach that point in his story," Vern explains.

"I'm not getting you into trouble by making these queries?" you say, feigning concern.

Vern touches his facial Aquila, as he is wont to do. "Not at all. You have sufficient access privileges now to query tome directly, but there are limits to how much I can tell you."

"I see," you reply. "I will call upon you later then, when next I have important questions that need answering." A little flattery never hurts.


	58. CHAPTER 46 - AND THEN WE WERE SIXTEEN

Our voidship settled into low orbit. No capital vessels had been allowed to dock directly with the orbital spire for nearly a thousand years. In late M40 and early M41, there had been several incidents where bulk ships had smashed into the spire structure. The spire hadn't taken significant damage, the loadbearing structure was practically indestructible, but the hive below would have been banged up pretty good, were it not for emergency activation of the void domes. The ships, their crews, and cargoes had been vaporized, but the overall collateral had been limited.

In 147.M41 a huge Munitorum conveyor had lost main gravitics. The secondaries had failed to kick in, and the ship had smashed down into the Circus. The conveyor vessel, whose destination was the desperate warzone of the distant Gothic Sector, had been loaded beyond capacity with ammunition and fuel. Combined with the fact that the hive's void shields were undergoing scheduled maintenance, the end result was widespread destruction and a death toll that exceeded the hundred million mark.

After this tragedy the Imperial Commander of Malfi had banned direct docking. So instead of docking directly - and heading downhive by lighting rail - we would travel down from orbit by shuttle, directly to the Hand's private spire-hold. The Hand must have been very well connected indeed, to get a priority flight corridor through the terminally congested air lanes of the Circus. The ban on docking might have solved some security issues, but at the same time it had created immense traffic control issues, as countless landers, large and small, sought to reach their destinations.

The shuttle was only half full. Us seventeen recruits, our four charges, and a handful of other people I knew to be support personnel. I had seen some of them on board during my secret forays. Plus they looked like support; their attires and their miens were of the kind you find only in servants - people who know they have a certain value, without having much say in how their lives are run.

One man stood out though. He was dressed like a preacher, humble cassock, holy symbols, and all. First of all he was the first preacher I had seen since boarding the voidship. In and of itself kind of unusual; the Hand didn't seem like they put much faith in the God-Emperor, at least not in a traditional sense. I was also sure I'd seen him before. Not on the ship. Ergo on Protasia, since I had never been anywhere else. He didn't look like a Protasian. Maybe I had seen him in the IG compound?

At the rear of the shuttle several pallets sat, loaded with a variety of unmarked STC crates and bins. No one had bothered assigning us seats, so we sat where we willed. It was my intention to try and gather as much information as possible about our destination. I sat by myself near a crysteel viewport; I had a good view of the outside, and I could sneak sideway glances at the preacher.

The shuttle shot out of the launch bay with sufficient force to push me back into the padded acceleration couch. There was a sickening feeling of weightlessness as the Right Hand's projected artificial gravity let go of us. It took several minutes before the shuttle's own gravity generators kicked in. When they finally came online they didn't hold properly, flickering on and off with irregular intervals and intensity before being switched off again. I figured that we either had the same moronic pilot that had run the craft up from Protasia, or the shuttle was in even worse shape than I feared. Maybe a combination of both.

Thanks to the inconstant gravity my nausea returned tenfold, but I managed to hold on to my last meal. Several of my fellow recruits did not. Globules of vomit now drifted across the compartment. It was messy - and made me doubly glad I sat away from the others.

Murash was among those hit by the barrage of stomach content. I could tell he was enraged, but there was nothing he could do about it. Unbuckling and kicking around in weightlessness, in a shuttle about to hit the atmosphere, would only aggravate the situation. Instead he sat there, fuming inside his visored black mask.

The preacher was strangely untouched by the puke attack. He just sat there, alone on his own seat row, and the stuff just sailed past or hit something else. He suddenly turned his head to the right and looked right at me; I was caught gawking. Our eyes met for a brief moment before I could yank my head around and pretend to gawk out the viewport. I was even surer we'd met before. The face was somehow familiar, yet not. And those eyes - I had looked into them before, or maybe they had looked at me. But for the life of me I couldn't remember the particulars.

For a moment you too are left with that vague sense of familiarity, without being able to place the man's psychic signature. You put your mental and psychic faculties to work analysing his signature for tell-tale markers, comparing them to the imprints already stored within your memory strata. Few can match your skills at psychic forensics, and this case is no exception: The man sitting in the shuttle is the same person as the preacher Haxtes shot in the head with a bolt pistol on Thira. Young Haxtes, lacking your sensitivity and experience, would of course have been unable to draw that connection. Preacher Maxentius he called himself back then. Now he has a different name - and a different body - but the mind and the soul is the same. Is he a daemon then, possessing a string of bodies? Or something else entirely? A flesh-hopping xeno? An unusually powerful sorcerer?

"Vern?" you ask of the darkness, "Are you there?"

"I am," the darkness replies. A myriad of tiny specks of light take shape inside the darkness, coalescing into the shape of Vern's Aquila. With its brightness turned to maximum the electoo provides sufficient illumination to make out his face and upper torso.

"That preacher Haxtes shot in Thira," you begin.

"Yes, what of him?" Vern inquires.

"Are you at liberty to speak about him?" you ask.

"I've no particular restrictions on that subject," he knits his eyebrows, "but I don't really have any information to share."

"You don't?" you ask. "Haxtes never mentioned him? And he never...reappeared, so to speak?"

"No, Haxtes didn't, not beyond the act of shooting him in the head," Vern replies. "What do you mean by 'reappeared'?"

"I mean to say that I suspect this Preacher Maxentius of being more than he appeared to, more specifically a soul-shifting entity. Not something Haxtes would have known at the time, but I imagine his psychometric talents might have revealed something later on. Or that the entity crossed paths with him later," you explain.

Vern rubs his face. "He never mentioned anything. But as you've seen; it could be he just failed to mention it. As for crossing paths: I cannot pre-empt Haxtes' story. You know that."

"I know," you say, sounding slightly weary. "I just wanted to mention it. At any rate, thanks for your candid answers."

By the time we hit the upper limits of Malfi's murky atmosphere I was starting to fear I too would become a victim of airborne vomit. Mercifully the planet's gravity, combined with atmospheric deceleration, steered the effluence back from whence it had come.

Our metal coffin started shaking violently and the world outside turned into a fireball as we streaked down towards the surface. It was my first orbital descent and I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't an unsettling experience. By the time we levelled out of our controlled plunge I was eagerly scouting out of the viewport. I quickly learned that Malfi's soupy atmosphere made visual observation an impossible affair. I resigned, closed my eyes, and sat back to relax.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is the shuttle hitting the metal deck - hard. Murash was positively enraged now. He gave directions to his three fellow assassins, and then headed for the cockpit area. The loading ramp was lowered by the cargo-master servitor and we were herded out of the shuttle in two columns, one to each side of the pallets. I couldn't see the preacher anywhere. He must have gotten up and out as soon as the ramp opened. Can't say I blamed him; between the vomit and Murash there was quite the oppressive atmosphere inside the shuttle.

I lingered for as long as I could without attracting attention. I was rewarded by faint protestations filtering out of the cockpit, followed by frantic screams of fear, then agony, then silence. Murash had finally dealt with the pilot, the way he should have done ten weeks ago.

I got out of my seat and moved to join the other recruits, who had already formed up outside on the landing platform. Two other shuttles were already parked on the flat metal surface that protruded from the spire's side. A fourth shuttle was just making its approach, passing through the open shield doors that protected the blister-like landing aperture from Malfi's hostile atmosphere. It landed perfectly in its designated quadrant.

We patiently waited for Murash to return. I looked about for the preacher, but didn't see him anywhere. When Murash returned a few minutes later, he carried with him the severed heads of the shuttle commander, his co-pilot, and the attending enginseer. I would have settled for just one of them to make my point. Killing all three seemed excessive and wasteful. Had Malachite been around he would not have approved.

Murash casually tossed the heads to one of the waiting servitor-attendants. "The shuttle needs a new crew. This one has been terminated on grounds of gross incompetence."

It was a grisly display, but I was fascinated by how Murash had used the opportunity to scour himself clean of vomit - using the dead men's blood. I thought he looked quite striking. He must have caught me staring, for the look he returned carried a string even through the visor. It carried the promise of painful disciplinary action.

I bit my lip when I realized my error. I had just broken two cardinal rules: One. Don't attract attention. Two. Timing, timing, timing. Murash was pissed like Angron himself and his blood was up from killing three men. For ten weeks I've stayed out of sight, out of trouble. And now I had stepped in it. How daft of little Haxtes to draw his ire just now.

I could sense purpose and violence building within Murash and knew I had to do something - the fact that I done nothing to deserve punishment would not protect me. My mind raced.

My opportunity came as a fifth shuttle came in on approach. It was going to be a tight fit. There were only four landing quadrants. The final shuttle had to land in the centre of the platform, way inside the minimum safe perimeters of the other craft. There was quite a bit of backblast as the shuttle's main thrusters angled down to cushion the final descent. A couple of the recruits either lost their footing or had to take a step to stabilize themselves.

I crashed into one of the vomit-stained recruits on purpose. I screamed something incoherent at him. The meaning was pretty clear though: You filthy oaf, get away from me. I followed up my screaming by elbowing him in the nose, Not very hard, be hard enough to make him reach up to protect his face. My next move was a very solid groin strike using my knee. He doubled over and his legs failed him. I kicked him some for good measure as he lay writhing on the cold metal of the platform.

None of the other kids moved to interfere. Diana, and the big pool of red she had bathed in, was still fresh in their minds. Murash had moved closer, but did not interfere. He merely observed. I pretended not to notice for a few seconds more, and then snapped to attention once I felt it was the appropriate thing to do. The downed boy lay whimpering at my feet.

The assassin regarded me through his opaque visor. I knew I was still in danger, but I had at least bought myself some time. I was trying to think of something clever to say when he bitch-slapped me across the face with his combat glove. It was made of a coarse, high-friction material and covered with sharp ridges. He smacked me again. Not too hard, just enough to make my head ring and my skin break, leaving a string of bloody welts and shallow cuts.

Next he grabbed my face with iron-hard fingers and regarded me. His other hand deftly removed my trophy shiv. He hadn't spotted the smaller self-made blade I carried. Or maybe he had, and simply didn't care. He pushed the point of the knife against my eyeball. Hard enough for me to notice, but short of actually puncturing it.

"Listen up you little vermin. All of you. Your lives, your blood, your flesh, your bones...everything belongs to the Hand now. You will not fight each other or harm one another through little 'accidents' - unless you are ordered to do so."

The pressure on my face lessened and he stepped away, taking the shiv with him.

"But don't worry. You will be ordered to harm one another," Murash added.

The ball-busted boy had managed to get back to his feet. Murash grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved my shiv deep into his gut. The boy screamed and struggled, but the assassin clung to him like glue, twisting the blade around with enough force to tear flesh and intestines both.

"Another thing that will not be tolerated: Weakness. You think you've been run hard during our voyage. Think again. The real hardship starts now. If you show weakness, you will be killed. If you fall," he put special emphasis on the last word, "there will be no one to catch you."

He grabbed the gutted boy by the ankle and started to haul him across the landing platform, heading purposefully towards the edge.

Fall. The word lingered in my mind, creating a sense of anticipation for what must come. I started walking after them.

The rest of the recruits followed meekly behind, goaded forward by the presence of the other three assassins at our backs. When we were all assembled at the edge Murash threw the boy over the side without further ceremony. It was quite a drop. The spire's landing blister sat on the side of a tall vertical section of the hive. Several hundred meters of free fall at least, four or five kilometres down to the roof of the Circus.

The air was thin, cold, and reeked of chemicals. It was also quite windy; a couple of the lads stepped too close to the edge and came close to being pulled over the edge by a sudden gust. They reeled back, panicked, but quickly found their courage again when they saw Murash's visor turn to regard them.

I dropped down on my belly to peer over the edge. It felt like the right thing to do. I had hoped to see the body hit the spire and tumble, but the same cold wind that had pulled at us took hold of the dying kid and swept him clear of ceramite and plasteel. He quickly turned into a fading dot that eventually got obscured by airborne pollutants and the glare from the radiant hive below.

And then we were sixteen.


	59. INTERLUDE - THE WILL

The Will of the Prophet was a very central component in the Word of Light. One might go as far as to say that the Will was the Word. Or that the Word existed only as a vessel to convey the Will. That to read the Word was to contemplate the Will. And so forth and so forth.

Not exactly a unique situation when it came to holy texts. The preacher had read a whole lot of them, and most were like that; difficult to understand. You had to read them, repeatedly, and try to glean the will of the gods out of the poorly formulated words of an insane, semi-literate prophet. Good luck with that.

The Word was different: It was extremely well formulated, written by someone brilliant, eloquent, and enlightened - that someone being the Prophet of Light. What complicated the matter was the fact that the Word of Light was so complex, so vast. The core of the Word comprised a mere six hundred and sixty-six volumes, all of it penned down in hallowed antiquity, but on top of that there was an endless array of commentaries, treaties, letters, revelations, and whatnot.

The Word was also very, very old. Despite the care taken to painstakingly copy it, deviations had wormed their way into the material. This meant that every congregation had a different version of the Word. For some the differences were minor, but in some cases there were huge discrepancies.

Finally the Word was often frustratingly vague, or deliberately contradictory. It had been written that way on purpose, to leave ample room for interpretation, conjunction, and extrapolation.

The Preacher knew them all, the core volumes and the commentaries alike, by heart - and he did not. The Word was not static; it changed with every reader and with ever reading. Not in the literal sense - the actual words were the same - but the Will your read out of the Word depended on who you were, what you knew, what you believed, and so forth, ad infinitum. Yesterday's answers need not be the answers of tomorrow.

How many times had he not returned to a favourite passage, only to realize that its implications were entirely different from what he had held to be the truth?

To put it another way: To read the Word was to be changed by it. To live was to change the meaning of the Word. And therein lay the meaning of life: To live so that you might learn. To learn so you might understand the Word, in the vain hope that you might one day be wise enough to truly fathom the Will of the Prophet.

He had wondered many times how the word came to be, and by extension who the Prophet really was. It had taken a while for him to accept it, but there were so many similarities between the Word and Imperial Creed that they had to be connected. But which one had come first? Did the Word predate the Creed, or the other way around? He couldn't tell for sure. As to the identity of the Prophet he'd entertained many theories over the years, but he could never find any concrete evidence to back up any of them, so he'd let the matter rest.

He had, however, found that the Word had continued to evolve after the Creed became calcified in the 31st Millennium. It had taken the Prophet quite some time to write all those six hundred and sixty six volumes. After the first mad writing spree of M31 and M32, the rate of publication had slowed down over the eons, with the last couple of volumes dated to the middle of M36, give or take a few hundred years.

The Preacher was sure the same entity - it had to be something not entirely human to have lived so long - had penned each and every volume. Not even a string of trusted apprentices, or inner circle of followers, could have produced something so coherent, yet confoundingly complex.

The Preacher was certain in his black heart that the Prophet-entity still lived. But why had he fallen silent? He had continued to write commentaries and letters as late as the 39th Millennium Angevin Crusade, but eventually the slow stream had become a faint tickle, until the Preacher couldn't be sure the Prophet was still around. The only additions to the Word for the last few millennia had been written by lesser men, preachers and priests of the Word of Light that had taken to putting their own interpretations of the Will into words. To the Preacher it smacked of heresy, of attempting to subvert the Word to the will of the priest.

Whatever its origin - and the state of its architect - the Word preached that the God-Emperor was false, that he was no god. The True Gods - that being the Chaos Powers - were very real, however. It was the duty of every freedom-loving human to prepare for the day when they must take up arms and overthrow the Imperium of Man, to usher in a new era of personal freedoms, ultimate truth, and a glorious ascension for the race of man. To achieve this goal all men must understand the power and majesty of the Gods - and act in accordance with the true nature of the universe. To do otherwise was to invite disaster and deny one's soul the chance for life eternal and power unequalled.

It was, all told, a pretty damn good faith.

After the debacle with the Guardsmen of the 57th Lo Mechanized Infantry and his own execution at the hands of that local boy, the Preacher had been stuck with converting Vaxanite underhive scum. As soon as the Guardsmen from Lo had left, he'd wormed his way into the ranks of the Vaxanites. He'd killed one of their members, a filthy wretch by the name Obiscor, and assumed his identity. Under the circumstances it was the best he could do.

He knew that the Word must be spread to all Men, but by the Powers was his patience tested! When the End Times came - which he hoped was very soon - there would be no place for this human effluence. If it was the last thing he did before he achieved apotheosis, he'd see to it that the hives of Vaxanide burned and all their children butchered. Then it would become know that he was not without compassion, for he had done the galaxy a great service by getting rid of the most noisome of all worlds.

It was with some relief he had been forced to declare Protasia as a total loss. He'd really tried with the Vaxanites, he really had. But eventually he had recognized Verrigan's hand behind it all, and known that Thira could not be redeemed. The planet was in ruins, its society chaotic - and not in the good sense of the word - and Thira was shaping up to become the worst pit of them all.

Things had really come to a head after the Protasian rebels - they called themselves Akakians by then - had received arms and equipment from a crafty Rouge Trader going by the name Corben. Bloody Verrigan had felt his control slipping. He'd been forced to call in reinforcements in the form of Veiled Hand assassins; death-cult assassins from the nether pits of Malfi. What plans and hopes that Preacher had left had been dashed during a few bloody winter months. They hadn't touched his new congregation, but their appearance had brought home what he already knew: it was time to pack up and leave.

The assassins had, however, proven a boon of sorts. They had their own voidship, a great old barge by the name of the Red Right Hand of God. It operated under cover as a merchant vessel, so the Preacher had approached their trading factors and made some arrangements. His passage to Malfi so arranged he had boarded the vessel. Finally free of accursed Protasia!

He later learned that his departure had come at a most fortuitous moment. Less than four weeks later the Imperials had returned to Thira in force. An Inquisitor called Soldevan had come with a full complement of Sisters of Battle, backed up by Deathwatch marines, and completely decimated his Vaxanite congregation - and anyone else standing in their way. Again he sensed Verrigan at work, manipulating the Imperium to get rid of a potential rival. Damn that bastard!

The Preacher kept mostly to himself throughout the journey. The Hand kept to its own bloody creed and would react violently towards anyone trying to preach the Word aboard their ship. Ten weeks of near solitude - with a short-lived pirate attack to liven up the dreariness - had seen the old vessel sail across steady warp-currents until it reached the sub-sector capital of Malfi. Three hundred billion souls, crying out for something to believe in. As good a place as any to start a congregation. Turning some of them away from the Corpse-God and towards the True Gods of Chaos would be ridiculously easy.

The boy had come as a complete surprise. The shuttle that carried them down to Malfi had trouble with the gravity generators, and some recruit or the other had vomited profusely as a result. A simple act of will had kept the Preacher clean - one of the benefits of being a sorcerer - and he'd closed his eyes to meditate, only to sense someone starting at him with their inner eye. He'd turned his head to look, and there he was: the fucking wretch that had blown apart the head of his old body. The Preacher was rarely surprised, but that twist of fate had left him momentarily dumbfounded.

After regaining his composure he sat there, fuming inside with barely contained rage. He had quite liked that body. And soul-transference had cost him dearly. He wanted the boy dead, but attacking him now was too risky. That Murash fellow was devilishly quick and far too cunning for the Preacher's liking.

The boy pretended to look out the window, but for a moment their souls had touched upon one another. The boy had recognized something, but he lacked the insight required to recognize a soul dwelling inside a different body. He didn't understand. Good. It meant the Preacher could afford to wait.

An idea occurred to him: Perhaps he could purchase the boy, or spirit him away? Teach him of the Will, rather than kill him. Now there was a true challenge for a Deacon of the Word.


	60. CHAPTER 47 - THE PRIZE

You pull back from the deep simulation for just a moment, letting it run in the background, with only minimal attention from the observational compartment. It's an experiment, to see if you can manage such a background process, while engaging the guardian persona in direct conversation at the same time. Whatever the outcome, it should provide you with some data, data that will come in handy when you sit down to plan a more robust mental arrangement for later sessions.

Haxtes gives you a quizzical look from behind the desk. "Are you two-timing me Marcus?

"Sort of," you reply, "if you count yourself. It's an experiment."

"An experiment in trying to bypass my security measures you mean," Haxtes says. "Venus is notifying me of your actions."

"Maybe it is at that," you admit.

"I'm not entirely displeased with you Marcus. It's rather nicely done," Haxtes says, sounding like he means it. "The first thing you've done to date that's been mildly impressive."

"There is plenty more where it came from," you reply.

"I'm beginning to think there is, but," Haxtes abruptly rises from his seat, "I have some tricks of my own."

You can feel the simulation becoming fainter. You try to bring it back, but it only causes Haxtes and the circle of light to turn insubstantial.

"I don't want to be forced to use the final sanction - shutting you out - but I will if I must," he says, his voice distant and weak.

"I meant no offense Haxtes, you know that." You add a little sigh for show. "I am, as you said, merely testing your defences. If that isn't acceptable, and at the same time I have to let you run the show, I'm afraid we've no further business. Lock me out and I'll find another way to get in. You know I will." It sounds like a threat, but it's the God-Emperor's truth.

"Perhaps." Haxtes thinks for a second. "Let us not be enemies, Marcus. I have had enough of those. Let us instead go back a step, both of us, and come to an arrangement. You promise not to double-time or otherwise screw me over, and I'll promise that there is a point to my tale. And to sweeten the deal I'll throw in the odd Melbinious-related lore from time to time. Acceptable?"

"Acceptable," you agree. "Now I'd like a bone to seal the deal," you add quickly.

Haxtes barks. "So soon? You just had several!"

"You mean our little chat about Chaos and Komus and whatnot?" You sigh again. "That was you teasing me. You're a good teaser Haxtes, I'll give you that, but you deftly evaded talking about anything even remotely useful to me."

"Me, a tease? Never been called that before Marcus." He gives you a cold stare. "Be careful what seeds you sow, young man." He refills his glass, waving the amasec carafe in your general direction afterwards.

"Yes please," you reply. "Some amasec to go with your juicy bones would be fine."

Haxtes leans back, drink in hand. "Very well, let's play questions and answers then." He smells the fragrant liquid before having a small sip. "You go first." His face is more relaxed than you've seen before.

"Fine," you say, "I'll ask the questions and you'll provide the answers."

You have a sip from your own glass. The drink is as potent as it is fragrant. Amasec, laced with traces of some unknown narcotic?

"Have it your way," Haxtes replies without emotion, "but I get to call it quits."

You make a magnanimous gesture and ask your first question. "Protasia and Malfi. How are they connected? In your opinion, I mean." You'll start with some trivial questions; see if you can bait him to come out into the open.

Haxtes replies without pause. "I've been led to believe that both worlds come from the same roots; from the same colony ship, the Absalom. But my homeworld was never Protasia, the First Colony of Malfi. It was Akakios, the Place of Goodness; a splinter colony, established by a faction aboard the Absalom that didn't want to settle at Malfi. A faction led by Nix, whose real name was Nikodemus; the navigator we have spoken of earlier."

So this is what Vern alluded to. "Isn't the difference purely academic?" you counter.

"Not entirely," Haxtes explains with uncharacteristic patience. Nix and his followers believed they had been pursued through the Warp by a force of darkness, a force that was still among them on Malfi. The majority of settlers did not share this view, calling Nix superstitious - and worse. Back in those days humanity knew sadly little of the perils of the Warp."

"So Nix - Nikodemus - and his followers sought to escape this evil by going to Akakios?"

"There was more to it than that," Haxtes answers, "but essentially, yes."

You're not convinced. "Sounds like a Protasian fable to explain away the more plausible explanation; that they had been colonized from Malfi."

"If it hadn't been for a personal revelation I would agree." A wry smile appears on Haxtes' face. "Did I mention you should try skiing sometime?" Before you can answer he finishes. "I guess I did. Next question please."

"I'm not going skiing, Haxtes," you reply. "This evil, was it, in your opinion, real? Or just an excuse for an exodus? An excuse for a prophet figure to lead his people out of danger and onto salvation?"

"Again, I appreciate your sentiments, but your suspicious nature leads you astray," Haxtes chides. "It was real. It is real. And it has a name. A true name even: Balphomael. The Horned Darkness."

"Should the name mean anything to me?" you ask?

"Not unless you're involved with the Calixian Ordo Malleus," Haxtes replies drily. "Balphomael is an immensely ancient and confoundingly powerful daemon lord. He caused trouble around the Calyx Expanse long before there was an Imperial presence there. He's been something of an arch-nemesis to the Calixian Malleus ever since the Angevin Crusade."

Enough with the peripheral questions; time to up the ante. "Does the tome really hold what was promised? That being the secret of human immortality?"

Haxtes. "Yes, it does. In fact it holds more than one secret path to immortality." His eyes become dangerously clever. "You want to clone yourself, and have your conscience transferred over to the new body? The process can be repeated, effectively granting you immortality. Everything you need to know is in here."

You shake your head. "That is not true immortality. A clone is only a genetic replica. It's not an exact copy of you. Not any more than identical twins are truly identical."

"You're quite learned Marcus," Haxtes says, "in the oddest of lores."

You ignore him. "Plus the brain-taping process is equally fraught with problems. And that's before we begin discussing the nature of the soul and how it connects to the body and mind."

Haxtes. "What about a so-called Halo device or two? I don't have them with me in here of course, but I can provide you with their locations. They do provide the host body with immortality."

You shake your head again. "I know of those devices from my visit to Calixis. The do offer immortality of sorts, but at what price? Madness and humanity lost. Not the kind of immortality I'm seeking."

"Speaking of which," Haxtes continues, "what about a Dark Pact? Or a quest for daemonic apotheosis? Guaranteed to cost you both sanity and soul, but if the techniques contained herein are to be believed it is immortality of sorts. Immortality and great power, for the price of eternal damnation and servitude."

"No," you say a little too hotly and loudly, "no dark pacts or daemons. I'm after what I'm certain is in here - the road to immortality without resorting to anything of that sort."

"Then perhaps you should tell me what exactly it is you're after. Immortality is rather too vague, I think." Haxtes looks expectantly at you.

You draw breath and speak the secret your master entrusted you with. "I seek the way by which a sufficiently potent and skilled human psyker can transform himself into an immortal being."

"I thought as much," Haxtes replies in quiet tones," I just needed to hear it from you. "Your master would make himself into the next God-Emperor." He lets out an uncharacteristic sigh.

You try to object, but Haxtes vehemently cuts you off. "The tome bears the Dark Omega for good reason; to prevent fools like you from getting to access to it."

"That's preposterous!" you exclaim empathically. "That is not my master's intention. Even considering such a thing is blasphemy, grand heresy!"

Haxtes has become deathly still. You can feel the cold emanating from his soul without recourse to your psychic probe. When he finally speaks his voice is as flat and dead as the drone from a mono-task servitor. The sense of hostility and imminent violence is strong and acute.

"This is where you shut up and listen Marcus. I'll have no more excuses for your master's behaviour. I've had quite my fill already. You're master is a radical at best, and a heretic at worst."

You manage to keep your peace, but only just.

"But then again, so was I. So I shall not stand in judgement over him - or you. I'll just have it noted that he's using you, my dear Marcus, for purposes that are entirely his own. The quest you are on is certainly epic, but it is brought about by the megalomania of one man, not born out a sense of duty to the God-Emperor."

He leaves you some space in which to reply. Testing you, tempting you to gainsay him. You do not rise to the bait.

"I'll give you the secret Marcus, but I'll test you every step of the way. If you falter, I will cut you out and you will have failed. It is as simple as that; for all your skill and power you cannot overcome the tome's defences on your own. I think you've already begun to realize that. I mean, you can barely keep me from reading your mind..."

You reply with deathly calm. "I think my defences are quite adequate, Haxtes. And they will keep improving. You are unable to read my mind now. It will get even more difficult as we progress."

"I will also," Haxtes continues, "attempt to test your own sense of morality and duty, in the vain hope that you will open your eyes, and see that your master is not the man you think he is. That his motives are not as pure as the snowy fields of the Mastari Mountains."

"Test all you wish," you cut in, "I will not falter. Nor will I relent if you try to block my access. And I will not break my vows to my master."

"Perhaps. We shall see soon enough. For now contemplate this: There are no blueprints or STC templates for this thing. The only way you can learn the secret of true immortality is to follow my tale, accompany me down the rabbit hole, see what I have seen, and feel what I have felt. Only then will the secret be yours."

"Why?" you ask. It's a simple, yet relevant question. "Why must it be so? Because you want it to be thus?"

Haxtes mien or tone hasn't changed the slightest. "It must be so because to understand immortality, you must understand the man who lived - and was then reborn. To understand Melbinious, you must first understand me.

Before you can reply you're back on Malfi. The recoding is brighter and clearer than ever before.


	61. CHAPTER 48 - HOME, SWEET HOME

We were marched back to the others in open formation. I felt calm and eager at the same time. The crisis had passed, and it had left me feeling alive and energized.

Murash addressed me casually as we walked. It was the first time he had spoken to anyone like they were actual people. "This is where we say goodbye. I go on to serve the revered Archon Ghaela, the finest blademaster amongst us." He still had my shiv in one hand, deftly toying with in a manner that inspired admiration of his skills. "You now go into the custody of Prefect Malachite. He will make you into what you need to be - or he will break you trying. Perhaps, in time, you will make it and become an anointed assassin of the Hand. If so we shall speak again then, share drinks, and retell the tale of how you came to the Spire of the Hand."

The massive shield doors started rumbling shut behind us, closing the landing blister and shutting out the cold and the wind.

"If not, I shall see you again on the other side of the Veil. Dead or alive - we all belong to the Red-handed God now." He fell silent after that. I dared not ask who this Red God of his might be.

We were coming up on the other groups even as the batch from the fifth shuttle joined the formation. Unlike my own ride the other shuttles had been relatively full, but a quick count revealed there was now less than two hundred recruits. Attrition had affected the other groups just as harshly as my own.

The assembly process was pretty much a duplicate of the one that had taken place aboard the Rubrum Dei dextera. Malachite appeared. This time he mundanely stepped out of the last shuttle. He tool roll call from the captains. He did a quick inspection of the troops. Got a few remarks from the captains. Didn't kill anyone this time. Walked back to his position in front for the assembly.

He then proceeded to assume command of the recruits. "I am, as you already know, Prefect Malachite. The Prefects of the Hand have many important tasks to attend to. Mine is making sure that the Veiled Hand is constantly replenished with new men and women that are ready to take up the path of the Parting Veil."

Malachite was very much unlike Murash. Where Murash was young and lithe, Malachite was older and heavier. If the younger man had been a dancer or an artisan, Malachite would have been a wrestler or a stonemason. I had no illusions as to who was the more dangerous person. In a contest between the two I knew that Malachite would win, ten times out of ten. Murash's fancy moves and agile fighting style would break as waves upon a rocky shore, and Malachite's brutal counter would punch though his effete defences and end him with a single strike.

"That means that for the foreseeable future - five, six, seven years, depending on how quickly you learn - I will be your lord and master in all things. I have many aides and assistants, but the power and the responsibility are ultimately mine. It is I, and I alone, who decides who lives and who dies. Who gets flung from the spire, who are gutted like pigs, who are skinned alive...fates that may well befall any and all of you should you show weakness or fail to please your taskmasters.

It is also I who decide when - if ever - any of you are ready to take the black and join the Brethren of the Hand. Work hard, do well, and keep on my good side. Those are the three things that might see you through training."

He turned full circle and made a dramatic gesture with both hands, indicating the entirety of what we could see.

"You are now about to enter the hive-spire sanctum of the Veiled Hand. It bears no official name, but many epithets - the Spire and the Sanctum being the least colourful and the most popular." He stepped closer to the assemble recruits. "It is our home, our fortress, our monastery. It is where we train to become killers without equal. It is where we learn to known the secrets of the Red Right Hand of God. It is where we rest and recover between missions." Malachite's speech ended and he watched in silence as we recruits were herded into the spire he had called home.

Home. What a strange word. Home had been the house in the hills. After that there had been no homes, only places to live and the memories of loss and betrayal.

Home. Yes, this place might just be that. A new home for Haxtes. A place for me to learn what I needed to know. Like I had learned of the men of the 57th Lo Mechanized.

But like the house in the hills I knew it would not be home forever. All things must come to an end; such is the nature of the universe. Only when this one came crashing to an end would I be ready for it. No more surprises. No more weakness.

I have rarely been so completely wrong in all my long life.

"One final thing Vern," you say out loud, "before I call it a day."

Moments pass by, without any answers from the darkness.

"Regarding the Word of Light cult and the nature of Protasian society," you continue, unfazed by the lack of response. "Now that you know the cult was active, what are your views on the nature - and spread - of this Protasian heresy?"

A small ring of light appears, framing you and Vern both.

"I always wondered why the Calixian Ordos were so concerned," Vern says, rubbing the edge of his skull implant, "with the spread of the Protasian Heresy. A philosophy of democracy, freedom of information, and personal freedoms is bad enough," he gestures for emphasis, "but there had to be more." He looks right at you. "You helped bring forth the final piece of the puzzle: the Word of Light."

You nod sagely in return. "I thought as much. The open nature of Protasian society, their extensive commercial connections throughout the sector, coupled with the presence of such an insidious heretical religion."

"A potent mix indeed," Vern says, taking the words out of your mouth. "So potent it changes the entire equation." He sighs heavily. "I have admired Protasian culture and society, but now I realize I have been led astray. My hopes were misplaced, my admiration naïve. Another harsh, but uniquely illuminating, lesson from my master."

"Haxtes is your master," you ask, trying to sound inconspicuous.

"I may have revealed too much," Vern quickly replies, "but I guess you already knew as much, didn't you?"

"I did," you admit. "Haxtes rebuke was so forceful there was no longer any doubt in my mind."

"Very well then: Haxtes Guilliman is my master. But that is all that I'm willing to say. How I ended up in his service is not my story to tell."

"And the relationship between Haxtes and Melbinious? Would that be asking too much?" you inquire, already knowing the answer.

"Very much so. Their relationship is complex and filled with paradoxes. I cannot do the story justice. You must delve deeper into Haxtes' story if you hope to understand."

"I thought as much," you say and prepare to end the session with the tome.

Vern steps forward and speaks in a whisper. "If you look carefully, you might find some of my written works. If any physical copies have survived, they will be found here, in the Librarium. Perhaps some of them might shed light on those topics I cannot speak about."


	62. CHAPTER 49 - I AM THE WEAPON

You terminate the connection, pull your hand away from the tome, and take a half-step backward. The three servoskulls are hovering in a semi-circle in front of you, half a meter above the head of the lectern-servitor. You pay them no heed. They have nothing on you.

You close the cover of the tome. "Return the book to storage," you tell the servitor, "I'm done for today."

You stand there, watching it slide a protective adamantium cover across the tome, enclosing it completely. A powerful and complex locking mechanism slides into place. It can only be opened by a handful of senior staff - and whomever they chose to release the tome to.

You turn on your heel and descend the three steps down to the floor. You sweep out of the chamber, brushing past the two combat servitors standing guard outside. Their task is twofold; to guard the chamber against intrusion and to escort the lectern-servitor back to storage. Now they will attend to the latter.

Your body is weary form all those hours in the reading chamber, but nowhere near as exhausted as yesterday. Mentally you're a bit more worn, but you kept both sessions short enough to avoid draining yourself completely.

You have important affairs to attend to. Affairs where mental exhaustion might literally get you killed. Distraction is another thing you cannot afford so you're forced to put the many questions today's second session has raised. Now it is time to push Haxtes and his outrageous claims and demands out of your mind and deal with your would-be killers.

The walk to the first flight of stairs is not long, but you relish the chance to stretch your legs. You bounce up the narrow winding steps leading to the 12th Tier two at a time, slowing down to a statelier pace just before coming into view of the gold-cloaks on watch duty.

You brush past them without and word and continue forward, heading for the next flight to stairs to ascend to the 11th level. You go quickly, without running. You don't think they are used to people running down here. Yesterday you took nearly an hour to reach the top. You goal is to cut that time considerably; approaching the half-hour mark should be possible, if everything runs smoothly at the checkpoints.

You've made no arrangements to stay anywhere tonight. It's too soon to sleep over at librarian Amaya's place. The mind-worm has begun its work, but it won't be done until tomorrow, at the very earliest. More likely it will take a couple of more days. You debate checking up on Amaya one extra time on your way out. See how the worm is progressing. Eventually you decide against it. You know what the answer will be. No need to waste time and energy on something that's a given.

Tonight you will have to find someplace else, a boarding house, inn, or hotel will suffice. But before you get that far you'll have to deal with the mystery team. It's either you or them, as foretold by the Emperor's Tarot.

Vern's suggestion that you try to locate physical copies of his works makes sense. Given what you know about the Second Library of Knowing, they will have quite the collection of restricted - and outright forbidden - literature. Unfortunately you don't have time to look through the billions scraps of text they have on record. Especially when such a search would add nothing to your primary quest: Claiming the fountain of psychic youth.

By the time you hit the 10th Tier of the Second Library of Knowing you get this tingling sensation running down your spine. Something terrible is about to happen. The premonition is vague at the moment, but growing in strength with every step you take. It's a lot like walking towards your own doom. Your mysterious opponents are making their move.

The woman with the artfully arranged hair intercepts you on the 9th Tier, standing squarely in your way as you pass down the hallway with the crystal statues. She is quite alone, save a single lectern-servitor. Epistolary Calpurnia Pisonis, you picked her named from the mind of one of her underlings, cradles a single red-coloured book against her chest. The servitor carries a whole case, stuffed with books, tomes, ledgers, and scrolls.

The encounter takes you completely by surprise. Epistolary Calpurnia isn't just someone who's warded against telepathy, but a person that defies all your supranatural senses.

"Marcus Aurelian, is it not?" she says in a formal, neutral tone.

"Epistolary Pisonis," you reply curtly, trying to figure out how to best exfiltrate from this ambush.

"So you have heard of me!" Her face lights up at the mention of her name. "But do please call me Calpurnia, no need to be so formal."

"I'm in something of a hurry, Calpurnia," you say in an urgent voice.

"I will be short and to the point," she exclaims, throwing her arms wide open and taking a step forward, completely foiling your attempt to step past the librarian: If you keep going forward you'll end up in a very awkward embrace.

You halt and take a deep mental breath. If it wasn't for her psi-wards this wouldn't be an issue. You don't want to harm her or otherwise get physical, so that leaves you with nothing but your glib tongue and some feigned politeness.

Trying to avoid looking down her cleavage, you chance a look at the tall, slender volume now held in her extended right hand. Its cover is made of red-dyed leather of grox. The quality of the binding is good, but the material unremarkable. 'The Rimward Dialects of Gothic' the title says. 'Ancient A'Malfian influences on the local tongues of the Calixis sector' is the subtitle. 'A treatise by the Honourable Vernission de Veridia de Archaos' it says at bottom.

So this Calpurnia Pisonis has been spying on you. Now she's putting on quite the show to get you interested. And it's working; you can feel your curiosity piqued. Had it been any other time, you might have obliged her, but you really, really don't have time for this.

"This really is a bad time," you start. The rest of your words are lost somewhere in those unfathomable eyes of hers. They are the shimmering blue-green of brightly lit ocean shallows, glimmering with golden flashes from the pristine sands hidden beneath the waves. The longer you look, the darker those eyes seem. Like a drowning man the sun fades from view and a great, crushing cold wraps itself around you.

You call upon your inner fire, willing the cold away. It helps. As does taking a half-step backwards, out of her painful aura.

She continues as if nothing has happened. "I take pride in overlooking all that transpires in my domain," she says solemnly, each word spoken revealing the white perfection of her teeth, "and I could not help but notice how the query-spirits you despatched into the archives were frustrated and deflected."

She gestures for the servitor to step forward. It obliges. You're busy breathing and trying hard to appear unfazed.

"I did not mean to keep you from your urgent affairs," she says, half turning, exposing the graceful arch of her upper back as it rises above the scandalous neckline of her formal gown. She deposits the red treatise on top of the other volumes. Your eyes take in a dozen other promising titles, all of them either written by Vern or touching upon subjects you've queried during your stay here at the librarium.

For a moment you consider snapping her neck and moving on, but it would only complicate matters.

"If I have offended you Goodman Aurelian, I am terribly sorry." She curtsies deeply, bowing her neck for emphasis, and moves to the side to let you pass. "I shall have the books removed immediately." The servitor mimics her movements, taking three shuffling steps to the side to make way for you.

"I appreciate your offer...Calpurnia. Were it any other time," you let the words trail away.

She rises tall and proud again. "Well, if any other time comes around; do feel free to call upon my services."

"I will," you say, not meaning it, and hurry past them.

It takes a while for the sensation to return, but by the 6th Tier the feeling has grown strong enough to become noticeable without concentrating. It now takes the guise of radiant heat, seemingly originating from your Tarot case. The heat isn't real of course. Neither does it come from the Tarot. It's just your own psychic mind trying to tell you that trouble is getting closer and closer.

This isn't what was foretold. The future has been changed without your intervention. Either your opponents are much more cunning and skilful than you've given them credit for - or Calpurnia Pisonis' presence has somehow upset the balance of things to come. It will complicate things and increase the level of danger. You must be both careful and determined if you're going to get out of this alive.

You've made it all the way to the third tier of the inverted pyramid before you become absolutely, utterly certain. Your enemies are here, inside the Librarium complex. You cannot yet see how many they are, or how they plan to assault you, only that they are indeed here, by the effect they have on your possible futures: A very acute feeling that your time is up. You would normally be able to get more detail than this, but the future is a state of great flux, greatly complicating matters of precognition.

Your body is warm and nimble from the fast paced walk and many stairs ascended. You mind is done cataloguing today's information and feels clear and quick. You've put the Calpurnia encounter out of your active processing areas. You are as ready for danger as you'll ever be. Well, considering that you lack any form of weapons and go unarmoured that is. No matter. Let them think you are at a disadvantage. You've no need for weapons. You are an acolyte of the Inquisition, a battle-trained Primaris psyker; you are the weapon. There is none more dangerous.

You extend your second sight so that it covers your immediate future, not just psychic auras in the now. It's the same thing you did in the Plaza of Loremasters yesterday. Only today the future is much more turbulent, preventing you from seeing anything worthwhile, beyond the next handful of seconds. Today you'll be warned of danger and have the chance to react before your enemies act - but you won't be able to manipulate them out of your future. Violence will be required for that.

You activate a clairvoyance probe to improve your situational awareness. There is no point overlaying it with your future sight; the future is too volatile, too shifting. You do, however, add a telepathic search mode to the visual probe. The mystery team of yesterday had a penchant for psi-wards and will likely continue to use them. So if you see people walking around, seemingly without mental signatures, you'll know they are suspect.

There are two complicating factors you need to take into account: The gold cloaked custodians with the psi-blocking helmets and the mystery team's own psyker. And Calpurnia.

They try to take you out on the second tier.

The library has been constructed out of the sub-levels of the floating hive city, making its internal layout highly eccentric and quite confusing to irregular visitor. This high up the library tiers are vast mazes of rooms and corridors. Security is also much less stringent up here, and there are much more activity in general. Visitors coming and going, staff slowly passing back and forth, servitors and servoskulls attending their duties, servants and pages seeing to the needs of staff and visitors alike. A good place to stage an attack.

Curiously enough the 2nd Tier is the busiest part of the library. Whereas the 1st Tier is more or less accessible to anyone who can pay the entrance fee, the 2nd Tier is mildly restricted. But it is also the first level to actually offer lore that isn't readily accessible from other sources. So if you need only first tier information, you don't come all the way to the Library of Knowing. You only do so if you want - and are allowed - deeper access. And so it is that the second tier is the most bustling level of all. And therefore the easiest to infiltrate.

The two gold-cloaked Cerberi come towards you as you pass along a wide corridor. You saw them coming before they were in visual line of sight thanks to your clairvoyance probe. You scanned both men and concluded they are not guards, but intruders - they are wearing psi-wards all right, but not the exact same kind the real guards' helmets contain.

But their profiles do match the ones you felt in the Plaza yesterday. It makes the two gold-cloaks verified fakes. Good fakes, just not good enough. Did they think you couldn't tell two different psi-wards apart? Amateurs.

Be that as it may; the two men with the enclosed helmets, the golden flak coats, and the power halberds are not guards. They are assassins sent to kill you. Now you must kill, or be killed.

Haxtes was right when he said your psychic powers are unusual. He just didn't realize how special. Telepathy and prescience are by far the two most common disciplines mastered by human psykers. Telekinesis comes a distant third. Pyrokines like yourself are even less common, a rare variant of the kinesis group.

But you've got an additional talent. A talent so rare that your masters in the Scholastia Psykana were forced to search long and hard before they found you some suitable teachers: You have mastered the strange art of metacreativty.

Simply put you - and your rare fellow metacreators - have the ability to create something out of nothing. It's not the same as calling an already existing object to you by means of psychoportation. As a metacreator you can reach out into the Warp and find the idea or ideal of an object, and then have it appear in your hand or in your immediate vicinity. It is extremely challenging and hellishly taxing on the body and the mind, but if you get it right, only your imagination limits what you can conjure forth.

Your future sight is now pretty clear and undistorted: In a few seconds two guards will come into striking distance. They will activate the power field generators inside their weapons and proceed to hack you apart. Both men are skilled warriors, individually nearly a match for you. Within the limited space the corridor offers, there is no way you can defeat them both. If you turn and run they will simply lower their halberds and trigger the bolt pistols worked into their weapons. An ignominious death.

You've some tricks of your own. You've already pulled a weapon from the Warp. Its weight is heavy in your right hand, concealed from your attackers' view by the bulk of your body.

Just outside melee range you whip up the conjured bolt pistol and fire a single shot at the right-hand gold-cloak. He has no time to react - and at this range you cannot miss. The hyper-explosive round hits him square in the chest, punching through his flak cloak just like you knew it would - flak armour usually fares very poorly against adamantine penetrators. The explosion inside his chest kills the assassin instantly. His armour might not have provided much protection against the shot, but it does provide good protection against unwanted blood spatter.

The second assassin is just as good as you feared. He doesn't panic or freeze with indecision. He reacts instinctively and quickly, doing the only thing he can do - close before you can shoot again.

Still, switching your aim and pulling the trigger is faster than the quickest assassin, especially one hampered by heavy armour and a halberd. The second shot is point-blank, but you only manage a glancing strike to his left arm. Again the flak armour offers little protection, but this time there is no explosion inside the target. The superficial flesh wound to the upper arm isn't enough to trigger the mass-reactive charge contained within the bolter round.

Without the explosion the hit merely disables the assassins arm, rather than blowing it clean apart, fumbling his decapitating halberd strike. Again he adapts quickly. He uses his forward momentum to crash into you. One moment you're standing, the next you're lying on your back on the floor, gasping for air and trying to clear the ringing in your ears.

You will the pain to go away. Clarity returns. The assassin is kneeling over you, a slender blade in his hand. You've lost hold of your bolt pistol, but a psyker like you is never unarmed: Again you will a change in reality. Before he can drive his dagger into your heart, the weapon becomes unbearably hot. He screams, more in surprise than pain - his armoured gloves must have protected him from serious burn injuries - and lets go of the blade.

While he's wrong-footed you take the opportunity to kick him expertly in the balls from prone position. If there is a lesson here, it is: If you're wearing an open armoured coat, don't kneel or squat over your opponent. Especially not if you've got balls.

The gold-cloaked assassin reels backward, giving you enough breathing space to kip up and regain your composure. You spot your bolt pistol not two paces away from your position - right next to your assailant. Figures. You can see the words There Will be Death engraved on it, letter Thorn and everything. You almost laugh then. Laugh at the marvellous complexity and insidious nature of the human mind. You've not conjured forth just any bolt pistol, but an exact copy of Haxtes' own gun, the one he uses to kill.

You make no move for the pistol. The assassin has already recovered. There is no way you can reach the weapon before he does. Instead you stand tall and throw your would-be killer your best Rogue Trader grin.

Death is in his hand now, rising to aim at you. You can see that the weapons physical structure has begun to unravel. Out of your hands your creations have a very limited half-life. When the pistol is level with your navel he pulls the trigger. Nothing happens; the bolt pistol is no longer a functioning weapon.

You've used the time well, fanning your inner flame into a blazing inferno. Now you reach out with your arms and let the fires out. To his credit your target tries to get out of harm's way, but he cannot dodge a flame that has come to sear his soul. He burns quickly and without making a sound; inside your mind his screams are loud and harrowing. They always scream thus when you consign them to fiery oblivion. Unlike Haxtes you take no pleasure in their agony.

Next thing you know your body is grabbed by an unseen force and slammed hard into the corridor wall. You manage to twist around to prevent injuring your head, but it still hurts like hell. You see two people, a male librarian with extremely poor teeth, and a slight female wearing a librarium servant's livery. You picked up neither of them before now. Not even a slight hint. Meaning it's the fucking psyker from yesterday, with his fucking psychic screen playing havoc with your psychic sight. Damnation!

He maintains the telekinetic pressure, keeping you pinned against the wall. Like you showed Haxtes you can fight force with fire. But right now you've more immediate concerns. You hold back, waiting for what you know will happen next.

"Kill him, quickly," the psyker shouts to his female companion. She responds by pulling out a compact zip gun. The twenty-shot clip is emptied in a heartbeat. You counter it with a heat-shield that vaporizes her bullets before they can touch you. To react before the act - that's a very useful trick for a man in your line of work.

That takes them down a notch. Neither is as fast or well trained as the two late assassins. You use their hesitation to establish a kinesthetic link with the enemy psyker. Same trick you used on Haxtes, only this time you won't simply counter, but counterattack.

You reach deep inside, letting the power of the other side feed your fire, before releasing it upon your enemy. He doesn't know what hit him. One moment he has the upper hand, and then next it feels like every neuron inside his body is on fire. Which they are.

His hold on you is broken and you drop to the floor. You land on your feet, testament to your many years of martial arts training. You rise tall with deliberate slowness. The girl has crossed half the distance between the two of you in the meantime. You give her your coldest smile. She realizes that she's badly outmatched in a bout of unarmed combat - even should you refrain from using your powers. Which you won't.

She hesitates, searching for options, but finding none. You try to get into her mind, but she must have activated her psi-warding device as soon as her companion dropped his screen. You move forward to disable her and remove the device. She backs away, and then bites down hard on something. She's dead before you can reach her. The smell of a familiar hydrogen-cyanide derivate is heavy upon her breath.

You peer into the immediate future again, searching for additional danger, but finding none. Your reverie is interrupted by the drip, drip sound of droplets hitting the stone floor. Droplets of blood. Your blood. You do not recall being injured, but closer inspection reveals a long gash on your lower right arm. The second gold-cloak must have nicked you when he bowled you over.

The wound is superficial, but blood is welling up and seeping down to drip from your fingers, marking your movements with a string of crimson droplets. You're reminded of that tale when Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars, leaves a trail of blood for his men to follow.


	63. CHAPTER 50 - TAKING STOCK

You stand in the corridor, silent and unassuming. You've dressed your wound and covered up the injury. The bolt pistol There Will be Death has dissipated back into the empyrean realms of the Warp; perhaps you shall be forced to call upon it later. The only signs of struggle are the dead, laying heaped around your feet.

The real gold-cloaks arrive two and a half minutes after the last assailant fell. There are six of them in total, moving as one, weapons aggressively raised, their wielders ready to eliminate you should you prove a threat. Under present circumstances a squad of the Librarium's Cerberi would overwhelm your defences. It will not come to that.

Instead you slowly raise your left hand, letting the nondescript gold ring on your index finger project a hologram of the stylized 'I' that is the symbol of the Holy Orders of His Divine Majesty's Inquisition into the air before the six gold-cloaks. The guards turn from hostile to subservient in the blink of an eye.

"Take me to the senior librarian in attendance," you say in a soft, yet menacing voice. "I would have words with him. The security here is a joke; these four heretics just attacked a member of the Inquisition."

You let the last word hang in the air, letting them savour its threatening undertones. If you must make it openly known who and what you are, you had best do it right: Let them fear you, as they fear the idea that is the Holy Orders of the God-Emperor's Inquisition.

The office of Epistolary Calpurnia Pisonis, the librarian with the wonderful hair, is quite spacious, finely decorated, and exquisitely furnished. The view of the Plaza of Loremasters is also quite spectacular, only outdone they say, by the view from the Chief Librarian's own study.

Speaking of Calpurnia: She had been the senior librarian in attendance, so that made this mess her mess. You don't like coincidences much, and this was the third time in one day you bumped into the annoyingly helpful woman. Your sense of paranoia lit up like fireworks on Ascension Day, but try as you might you've found nothing to indicate it was anything but coincidence. That first time was just a chance encounter, two souls passing each other by. The second time came as a result of your own machine queries, and a certain overeagerness on her part. And finally: The Chief Librarian, and the four Deep Epistolaries that outrank Calpurnia, are all engaged elsewhere; elsewhere in this hive, elsewhere on Hive Alpha, elsewhere in the Finial sector.

Epistolary Calpurnia - she still insists you call her by her first name - has proven to be nothing but professional, apologetic, and efficient. You've been well treated, expertly tended to, and the recipient of an endless stream of apologies. Her professionalism is unquestionable. The only thing you don't like about her is the psychic void she projects; it makes it impossible to read her mind or emotions, and therefore you cannot be certain of her motives. She also completely upsets your precognitive abilities whenever she draws near. She's effectively annulled two of your key investigative abilities. Quite frankly you find being close to her more than a little unsettling, despite her rather nice curves and undeniable feminine allure.

Thankfully Calpurnia is out attending to her duties at the moment. In their own way the librarium's leaders are even more concerned with the security breach than you are. They do not wish to been seen as lax in their duties when the Inquisition is around. You are sure they will do their best to find out what slipped up, and see to it that something like that won't happen again.

The question is: Will their best be good enough? The four attackers weren't just ordinary rabble. They were highly skilled and supremely motivated. Motivated enough to kill themselves rather than face capture and interrogation. For the most part only hardened heretics and Inquisition agents have that sort of dedication.

According to the Tarot there should have been nine. You've only accounted for four. Where are the other five? You've ordered Calpurnia to conduct a full security lockdown of the facility, but your hopes of finding any more intruders are low. The operatives you killed were as skilled as they were motivated; the survivors will have pulled back and regrouped.

The Tarot indicated the action would take place outside. The Emperor's Tarot is very rarely wrong as such. It is, however, not a high definition pictcorder peering into the future; the burden of a good reading lies squarely on the reader. You're not a Tarot grand-master, but todays reading was clearer than usual.

You review the attack one more time. The conclusion is the same: The other team did something to radically upset the balance of the future, creating a situation that you had no way of anticipating. Only your brief encounter with Calpurnia saved your life. Had she not appeared to upset fate in your favour, the mystery team would no doubt have managed a coordinated strike on you.

As much as you'd like to burst out of the library, guns blazing, to bring down the rest of them, it's not a viable option. There are too many future uncertainties, too many things that can go wrong and leave you dead. You cannot afford to die now, before your duty is done. For now you must remain within the relative protection offered by the thick walls of the Second Librarium of Knowing.

The library doesn't have many facilities for staying guests, nor do they encourage visitors to stay over. They have an arrangement with a number of hostels and boarding houses, located just off the Plaza for that sort of thing. But the senior staff - Calpurnia included - has sufficient space to stay over if they have to. A sleeping alcove, a hygiene booth, and a collapsible kitchenette. More than good enough to meet your needs.

The epistolary's office also has a full query suite. No more needing to descend to the 9th Tier to access the librarium's data-stacks. The security aspects of such an arrangement are dubious in your opinion. What use is the physical tiering of secrets, when there are multiple bypasses available? Well, since it works to your advantage, you're not about to start complaining.

You also ordered Calpurnia to have the Ascension tome brought to the office tomorrow. She didn't like that one, tried to quote security regulations at you. You gave her one of Haxtes' grins in return, and pointedly noted that the librarium's security was already so dubious that one more security breach wouldn't really matter. In the end she had relented - without even requiring the use of your Rosette.

You will have to move the tome. That much is clear to you now. The thought had crossed your mind before, but prior to the attack it never seemed a reasonable alternative. Having the tome brought to Calpurnia's office is an important first step. It will make the actual theft and getaway all the much easier. Beyond that you don't know yet; you need to plan and prepare before making your move.

You hope to be able to have at least one session, preferably two, with Haxtes here in the Librarium, regardless of what challenges tomorrow might bring. When last you spoke he seemed to claim that he was the great Melbinious, or at least intimately connected in some fashion. It is unlikely to be true, but still something you need to investigate more closely. Vern refused to illuminate you, directing you back to Haxtes, so that's what you will do, first thing in the morning.

Before calling it a night you set up some background queries using Calpurnia's office equipment. Some of the queries are of real, if peripheral, interest to you, searches that you hope will give you something against which to measure Haxtes tale. But the majority of the queries are there merely to confuse and confound those who would monitor you - if Calpurnia did, others could try the same - and learn your intentions. In your line of work it pays to be extra careful. Now that the plot has begun to thicken that truism is even more relevant.

You leave the query station and move over to the case of books Calpurnia's lectern-servitor has left for you to peruse. Since you'll be staying it seems a waste not to have a peek.

The Rimward Dialects of Gothic proves a huge disappointment. You had through there was a reason Calpurnia waved it in front of you, but no. It contains altogether too many detailed comparisons of the Low Gothic dialects of many a Calixian world, first and foremost the major planets of the Malfian sub and the Drusus Marches. Too many details and nothing useful, except that you - at last - find the name 'Akakios' applied to Protasia of old. You already knew that, but it's still nice to see it confirmed, even if it doesn't help poke holes in Haxtes' story.

'The Protasian Campaign', in flawless High Gothic, penned by one Veteran Sergeant Eos of the Tigers Argent, is much more satisfying. It would appear that this Eos is the same man you liaised with, centuries later. Composed as part of his officer candidate training, the book details the Protasian campaign in general, and the Tigers' involvement in quite some detail. It confirms, in no uncertain terms, the sordid tale of the Protasian reclamation campaign, from the opening shots, until final compliances. If anything the judgment of the Astartes is even harsher than Haxtes' tale.

'Unsung Heroes, the Regiments of the Spinward Front, vol. 1: The Early Years', is also an interesting study. Written by Master Logister Tyco Xavier Gobert of the Departmento Munitorum, it details every major Imperial Guard formation, and many minors units and auxiliaries, to be deployed to the Spinward Front. It's not a campaign history per se, more like a list of units, replete with details like deployment listings and battle honours. The collective information contained within the thirteen hundred pages could provide you with a detailed image of the situation from 799.M41 to 816.M41, but you settle for finding one regiment - the 57th Lo Mechanized Infantry Regiment.

You find it readily enough: Ordered created by Tithe Order 809.M41. Mustered on Lo 811.M41. Deployed first to Kulth, then to a string of outlying worlds, then back to Kulth again, just in time for the treachery of Duke Severus. Ordered disbanded by Spinward Front command and rotated out. Retasked to Protasia by Special Executive Order. Finally disbanded and given settlement rights 817.M41. Unusually quick paperwork for the Administratum, but every detail revealed supports Haxtes tale.

You leaf through a few other volumes. Some are planetary ledgers, written by Vern, covering some very strange and exotic locations. Other volumes have different authors and cover subjects of a wide variety, but always connected to your machine queries. The Calpurnia woman is both nosy and very thorough. Some of what your read is mildly interesting, most of it is not. However you look at it the evidence points in one direction: Haxtes tale is true, as far as the historic details are concerned. If there really was a boy like Haxtes, living in Thira at that time of the war, you will likely never know for sure.

It is getting late; despite your phenomenal reading speed hours have passed since last you looked at the desktop chrono. By your aestimate you've leafed through between a third and a half of the material. If you have time to waste you might have a second look, but you doubt you'll have the opportunity. Greater things demand your attention. You close the opened volumes and return them to the case. No need for anyone to know what you're reading.

You do your limbering exercises, your katas, and your mental relaxation drills. Then you clean yourself up and don a soft robe provided for your benefit. After experimenting a bit with various dynamic mental layouts, you realize you're close to exhaustion. Tomorrow will no doubt bring new challenges, so you decide to hit the bed to get some quality sleep while you still can.

The office is furnished with a wide sofa that transforms into a surprisingly comfortable double bed upon your spoken command. You lay there for a while, just breathing and emptying your mind. Images of Amaya keep popping up. You consider calling upon her, but decide against it. Her services will be required later, and the less of a connection there is between you the more valuable she will be. Too bad, you could have used some female company right now. You sigh and initiate sleep-mode.

Before the cycle can complete the door opens. You're not particularly alarmed. Only Epistolary Calpurnia has the necessary clearance to enter her own office space. But to be on the safe side you cancel sleep-mode and fill your mind with familiar fire.

You watch her through half-closed eyes as she glides across the darkened room. Somewhere along the way she loses her robes; you can see the whiteness of her curves in the pale light that filters in from the flying hive-city outside. She pulls your blanket away and wordlessly finds her place on top of you.

There is pleasure and pain both as her body moves against yours and her void tries to smother your flames. You open your mind and rise to the occasion, pitting your red power against her cold whiteness.

Your companion lies exhausted at your side, already deep in the realm of sleep. You have filled the void in her soul and sated her cravings. Gone is her alien emptiness that put you off earlier. You reach out to touch her sleeping mind - but there is nothing to connect with. Her mind is still beyond your reach.

The lengthy tryst has left you breathless and empty, but oddly calm and content. You slide down next to your lover and close your eyes. You fall asleep in moments, without the need for any mental tricks to put you under.


	64. EPILOGUE - THE MAN NEXT TO YOU

Alfonzo Barca sniffed the air. His superhuman olfactory abilities told him that Mother Abigail's fabulous stew wasn't quite done yet. It needed another good hour for the meat to reach that ultimate texture; just on the edge of breaking apart, yet still managing to hang together as you spooned it in. He could easily pick out the ingredient in the stew. Many of the usual suspects, including some of his favourites: ubiquitous rush unions, the local shadow-weed, and the strange mushrooms that grew on the underside surfaces of the flying hives. Abigail has added some of the flesh from the bulbous Akimban banana to the mix. Alfonzo wasn't sure he approved; the banana was too sweet, its texture too cloying, for his tastes. Why the Imperials bothered to transport it between the stars baffled him.

On the other hand Mother Abigail usually knew best when it came to cooking. Her ability to combine the most unlikely of ingredients in new and exciting ways was nothing short of impressive. Akimban banana or not, he would eat his fill tonight, no question about that. Especially when tonight's meat was what Mother jokingly referred to as long pork - flesh of human. Alfonzo Barca sniffed the air again, more intently this time. He was almost certain that the man in the pot was the greasy scum they'd caught in the Librarium's hopper pool. It had to be him - the other captives hadn't nearly enough fat on them for it to be them bubbling in the stew.

His appetite so piqued, and with nothing better to do while he waited, Alfonzo Barca of the Word Bearers Legion of Adeptus Astartes rose to his full height of two hundred and seventeen centimetres and heaved his three hundred and twenty kilos - Alfonzo was rather short and wiry for a Space Marine - over the edge and into the gaping pit that led down into the sub-levels. He'd go make sure this new Deacon of theirs wasn't up to no good. Samus willing he'd be back well before supper. Maybe there would be some good marrow bones left to chew on after the stew.

The man wearing Deacon Evans' flesh waited impatiently at the base of the fallen statue. He thought it resembled a seraph, an Imperial battle angel, ironically reminiscent of the true, empyrean form of certain of the daemons of Chaos. He couldn't be entirely sure, for this part of the flying hive city - the statues included - was in a horrible state of repair. If the people crowding across the surface of this particular flying city, known as Gamma Rho, had known how rotted and decrepit the bowels of their hive were, they wouldn't have slept well anymore. Instead they droned on, trusting in the mindless priests of the Machine God, blissfully ignorant of the doom that must inevitably come.

As far as Evans could tell there had once been one hundred and thirteen - or maybe fourteen, the sources were vague - such cities constructed in the skies over Bokiba-Bapas in the aftermath of the Radiant War. Now there were eighty-four remaining. The rest had plunged, a few of them quite suddenly, into the irradiated wastelands far below, often with little loss of life, but sometimes with catastrophic results. Twenty-nine - or thirty - flying cities lost since the 34th Millennium. One city lost every three centuries, give or take. You didn't need to be deep into the secrets of numerology to understand the implications.

Of the remaining eighty-four cities, only seventy-nine remained habitable. The last five were so structurally unsound they might crash at any time, or they had strayed too low, down into the radiation layers, and become uninhabitable. That was the official version anyway. Evans had just come by way of one of the low-flying cities and could testify to the fact that there were quite a few people still living there. Many of them terribly afflicted with radiation-induced illnesses - or horribly mutated to compensate.

Conditions on the surface were even more hellish of course. Unprotected humans couldn't live down there at all; they would need to be encased in the equivalent of tactical dreadnought armour to have any hope of survival. Only the hardiest of mutants stood a chance of withstanding the radiation belts and the toxic atmosphere left behind by the war. And then there were monsters; hideous things, the degenerate descends of living bio-weapons, hateful of all life. The surface of Bokiba-Bapas was a place best avoided.

The man inside Deacon Evans had erred, erred repeatedly, he knew that now. No, it was worse: He hadn't just erred; he had wilfully ignored the Will of the Prophet. He had read the Word, but twisted it to suit his own designs, rather than heed the pure Will contained within the holy texts.

It was no valid excuse, but it had begun long ere he was born, long before his soul was inured to the mysteries of the Warp. It had begun on Cyprian's Gate: The voidship captain who would go on to become the first Protasian Deacon should never have been exposed to the Word in the first place. It was forbidden; in no uncertain terms the Will forbade the Brethren to spread to other worlds, to do anything that might expose the Word. Only the Prophet, or one of his Apostles, had the authority to spread the Word to new places, to start new congregations.

The unholy practice of spreading the word had flourished on open-minded Protasia. One congregation became many, and then new Deacons had taken to the stars aboard Protasian ships, wilfully ignorant of the ban on missionary work. One congregation became many, each of which remained in contact with the mother temple, creating a unified church of the Word. There were few sins greater; the Word expressly and intently stated that congregations must never interact.

For a time he had deluded himself, reading only those part of the Word that supported his sinful ways. Eventually he had left Malfi behind and gone on a lengthy pilgrimage throughout the Calixis sector and beyond. Slowly he had pieced together the pure, unaltered version of the Word of Light. He had, ironically, found the last piece on Cyprian's Gate, where it had all begun. To be honest he had long suspected: In the dark watches of the night, with only the whispers of daemons for company, he had contemplated many things. But he had always been reluctant to accept the obvious; that his entire multi-centennial existence had been an affront to the Will. The Word changes with ever Reader and every Reading. Now that he had its full, unaltered measure, as penned by the Prophet's hand, he knew that according to the Will there was no greater sin that that of unsanctioned missionizing.

The Prophet had wandered the stars along the rimward edge of Segmentum Tempestus some three millennia ago - give or take a few centuries - and sown the seeds of the congregations, the true Congregations: Entirely separate, forbidden from spreading beyond a defined area, and absolutely forbidden from making contact with other groups of the faithful. It was only at the beginning of the End Times, heralded by the second coming of the Prophet of Light and his Apostles, that this ban would be lifted. How could they have been so blind? How could he have been so blind? Because they had not heeded the Will: Blinded by their own ambitions, they had cared not for the true message. Blinded by hubris, they had thought to make the Word their own.

Enough of the past. He had known then that he must seek to make penance. So he had crafted his great Aethyric mirror, using techniques wrangled from the sorcerer-priests of the Screaming Vortex, and gazed into the abyss. And the Envoys of the Gods had shown him what he must do: Go to Bokiba-Bapas, kill this man Evans, assume his identity, and become the late Deacon. The old Evans had been a very weak man. With him to guide them, the congregation would have failed in their appointed task. With the new Evans they would succeed. It was the first step. Afterward the Prophet would reveal what other plans he had for Evans.

There was a fringe benefit as well; the great Library of Knowing was located on Bokiba-Bapas. It was here, on this very platform. Evans knew it held the final clues to the true name the horned darkness had bid him uncover all those years ago. The daemon had grown displeased of late, demanding progress and threatening reprisal. Evans didn't particularly care to have his soul consumed, so he looked forward to finally getting the noisome daemon off his back.

Cold steel suddenly graced his neck, bringing him out of his reverie. "Your mind is wandering, Deacon," a voice whispered from the darkness at the base of the seraph statue, "that can be very dangerous around these parts. You never know who might be lurking."

Such a soft voice; masking the fact that the speaker was very large and hugely powerful. The voice modulation wasn't quite like anything he had heard before. Evans couldn't place his Low Gothic either; it was a soft mishmash of a thousand dialects. Born on a voidship then, or perhaps merely raised aboard one.

The knife disappeared. "Fortunately you have friends watching out for you, Deacon." The man next to him stepped out of the shadows.

He was among the tallest men Evans had encountered, and nearly as heavy-set as an ogryn. He was not abhuman, however, he was Astartes, a space marine. It took a moment for Evan's mind to accept the fact, for the marine went without his suit of power armour, a sight rarely seen outside the halls of their fortress-monasteries.

When realization finally dawned, Evans found it most intriguing. He had never heard of a congregation with Adeptus Astartes connections. Perhaps this was a sign of the End Times and the coming of the Prophet?

"The girls will be along to pick you up shortly," the man said, "I just wanted to have a look at you first. You just keep your hands to yourself and your tongue in check, and there will be no trouble between us. Try to outgrow your position as a religious advisor and I'll send you straight to the stew pot. You read me, human?"

"Yes, I read you. Sir." Deacon Evans pretended to be properly intimidated, even as he started to weave sorcerous tendrils into the marine's mind. Not even Astartes talked to a Deacon of the Faith like that; he'd adjust the marine's psyche to produce a more malleable servant.

Alfonzo Barca wasn't too fond of sorcery, probably because he had no affinity for it. To him it was a powerful and unpredictable force he had little protection against. His time with Mother Abigail had, however, taught him to recognize the foul stench of magic. It had also taught him that the only way to deal with a sorcerer was through immediate, unrelenting violence.

Brother Evans lay prone, face smashed into the broken masonry before he knew what had happened. The pain was considerable; the left side of his face was a complete ruin of mangled flesh, broken bones, and shattered teeth. There might be a skull fracture involved.

"I told you," the space marine hissed into his ear, "that you shouldn't try to rise above your station."

Evans tried to answer, but the big man brutally dislocated his right shoulder, producing a fresh wave of agony.

"I'm not stupid. I know sorcery when I smell it. You ever try to do something like that again; I'll rip you to pieces. You'll take a long time dying, human. And when I'm done with you I'm gonna gnaw on your bones and shit you out."

Evans tried to protest, but the point of a knife was pressed into his right eyeball, effectively silencing him.

"Normally I'd just kill you right here and now, but the Apostle says the Word requires us to have a Deacon. And you're him. So you get this one extra chance," his assailant told him, "against my better judgment." The knife disappeared, to be replaced by the searing pain of his right pinky finger being cut from his hand.

After he stopped screaming, the marine whispered his final warning. "I took this finger to remind you of me - and me of you."

When finally he managed to look up there was no one there, just a soft whisper upon the wind: "Samus. That's the only name you'll hear. Samus. It means the end and the death. Samus. I am Samus. Samus is all around you. Samus is the man beside you. Samus will gnaw on your bones. Look out! Samus is here."

He was forced relocate his own shoulder, and to make a makeshift bandage to cover his lost finger. His entire arm throbbed like hell, the missing finger even more so. He was able to supress the worst of it, but a shot of stimms would have been nice right now. He would have to have the hand looked after; the bowels of the city was a filthy place, and he didn't want to risk an infection. Too bad his sorcerous talents didn't including the healing arts. By and large the forces of Chaos were difficult to use to mend and cure; destruction and decay came so much easier.

Deacon Evans heard them before he saw them, two women, chatting softly between them. He couldn't quite make out the words, but whatever it was, it was funny; the girls would giggle and laugh after every few words.

It didn't take long before he could make out two female shapes, walking out of a sub-hive thoroughfare and into the buried angel-framed space. Both women wore the same kind of tight-fitting bodysuit that left little to a man's imagination. The taller of the two, the one with the long dark braid hanging down her back, wore a suit of midnight, highlighted with crimson. Her companion, shorter and somewhat more muscular, was all crimson with black tracings below her shoulder-length hair.

Protective suits were essential for those who lived and worked down below. The hive cities of Bokiba-Bapas were safe from the horrors on the planet's surface, but the age-old technology that kept them flying presented a different set of potentially fatal environmental hazards. Those that could afford to, used rad-suits, breath-masks, and the occasional anti-toxin pill to keep healthy. Evans had procured a suit for himself - complete with hood, breath mask, rad counter, toxin indicator, and all the other paraphernalia - during his visit to the low-flying Upsilon Delta hive. Down there a rad-suit wasn't optional, it was an absolute requirement.

Upon closer inspection he realized that the girls' suits were quite different from his own, beyond mere visual differences. They were wearing bodysuits specifically engineered to provide a base layer for power armour. You didn't wear something like that unless you had access to a real suit and the skills required to use it. First an Astartes and now two Daughters of the Word? Truly the Apostle was watching; he had better get this right, or there would be no redemption!

Both girls were armed. The taller one with twin pistols, the shorter one with pistol and blade. The girls were not alone. Three men accompanied them. One of the companions was a huge brute, taller even that the space marine that had taken his finger. For a moment he'd believed it was another Astartes, but it wasn't. The hulking figure was a twist, a mutant. The other two men were more normal looking. One had three crude cybernetic fingers on the left hand that cradled the shotgun he carried. The second had hideous facial scarring, of the kind you got if burned by promethium. The hands holding his lasgun were steady, his eyes cold and very alert.

"Poor Deacon," the taller of the two girls said in an innocent tone. "What happened to your hand?" she said, walking over to stand at his injured side, making the secret signs of the Word as she walked.

"This?" he said, trying not to fidget as he gestured the return signs. "It is nothing. I was careless and injured myself," he lied.

The shorter girl - she was not short in a literal sense, only shorter than her sister and more muscular - followed suit, taking up a position next to him. Between them they effectively flanked him - and gave the man with the lasgun a clear shot at Evans.

Up close the two girls looked very much alike, as if they were siblings. They were definitely sisters, possibly twins - but not identical twins.

"I am Kara," the girl in the red suit said, forcing him to turn towards her to follow her words.

"And I am Evans," he replied. "Deacon Evans."

"I know," she replied. "And the girl next to you is Willa, my darling sister."

Willa had stepped in close. Now she softly wrapped her arms around him. "Look what cruel Alfie has done to you," she said, caressing his injured hand, creating fresh waves of agony. "Come with us Deacon," she said in a husky voice full of alluring promises, her breath warm against his ear, "we'll make you feel whole again."

"Why is that we need him?" Alfonzo Barca asked the woman tinkering with the shoulder section of her power armour.

"We don't," Cassandra replied smoothly, managing to look as regal as ever, even with zipped-down bodysuit hanging loosely from her hips, "but the Word demands we keep a Deacon - and the Will, in the guise of the Apostle, was very specific that we obey the Word. To do otherwise is to invite ruin, to risk the displeasure of the True Gods. And we cannot afford to fail this mission. The book: The accursed Ordos are not to have it."

"Still don't see why I shouldn't pummel his head with this," Alfonzo objected, casually waving his power maul, "every instinct I've got tells me I should. Kill him and get a new one I say. One who is not a sorcerer. No one mentioned anything about a sorcerer."

"Don't sulk Alfonzo. It doesn't become you. You won't kill him, Alfonzo, because the Apostle demands he live," Cassandra said with great finality and slapped the offending pauldron, hard. It seemed to do the trick. A white-teethed smile lit up her stern features.

"He demands a lot, the Apostle does," Alfonzo said gravely, "but gladly would I give him anything. My life and soul included. If that is what it takes, I'll let the sorcerer live a little longer. But the moment he does anything funny...or we no longer need him...it's the stew pot for him."

Cassandra shrugged. "Whatever you desire my Lord Barca. Personally I'll pass. Sorcerous flesh does not appeal to me."

Alfonzo shrugged, "We're all free men - and women. Besides, all the more for me," he said cheerfully.

The tall woman with the austere face looked disapprovingly at Alfonzo, but there was a hint of something else in her eyes. A certain fondness perhaps? Of the kind you might feel towards a wild lion you've reared since childhood.

"Go see Abigail instead," Cassandra said. Take that finger bone to her. Tell her to make you a charm out of it. She'll know what to do."

"I will," Alfonzo replied, jiggling the many other bone charms already hanging around his neck. "Soon as I see you go, I'll go help her clean the pot - and ask her to make the charm."

"I wish you would control your lecherous ways around me, Alfonzo. I find it...irreverent. I belong, soul, mind - and body - to the Word, so save it for Willa and Kara," Cassandra told him, "you know how they crave attention."

"Which is why they can't have it. Not all the time anyway. Besides," he put on his most wolfish grin, "you're much nicer to look at than they are."

"Nonsense," she replied, a bit too heatedly. They'd had this conversation many times, and she really should know better than to rise to the bait.

"Oh, but you are," Alfonzo countered. "The superhuman senses and cold Astartes logic tells me it is so. My heart and my faith also."

Few Word Bearers would jest so with matters of faith; Cassandra found his irreverence, to her great chagrin, mildly arousing.

"The girls make the best out of what they've got, which is admirable," the marine continued, "but you; you try so hard not to make anything out of what you've got. And still you beat them."

"You're a vile flatterer, Alfonzo Barca," Cassandra said and rose to stand.

"That I am," the space marine agreed, grinning broadly, "That I am."

Cassandra sighed, pulled up her suit and zipped it, making the self-contracting fabric tighten around her athletic body.

He watched her go.

"And there's two of them, and only one of you, and still you beat them" he shouted after her.

Cassandra shook her head and picked her way to where the Deacon lay resting. She had better explain a few things to him, or his stay with the get of Samus' would be short indeed.


	65. APPENDIXES

_Ignorance is bliss._

- Anon


	66. APPENDIX 1 - DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The list is not exhaustive; it includes only important/recurring characters.

Main POV cast

Haxtes Guilliman: The 'I' character. The gatekeeper of the tome. Formerly an Interrogator of the Calixian Inquisition. Served under Inquisitor Melbinious. Homeworld Protasia. Trained as an assassin. Fairly accomplished psyker.

Marcus Aurelian: The 'you' character. The prodigal Interrogator. Homeworld Metrodora (Segmentum Solar). A very powerful and skilled psyker. Serves an unnamed (radical?) Inquisitor (from the Mandragora sector).

Other (3rd person) POV cast

Alfonzo Barca: Word Bearer. Disciple of Samus.

Balphomael: Powerful daemon prince. Active in the Calixis sector.

(Captain) Corben: Rogue Trader. Master and Commander of the Maiden of Golgenna.

Kaminsky: The blind Librarian of the Green Knights' Deathwatch Company.

(the) Preacher (aka. Molevoch, aka. Maxentius, aka. Obiscor, aka. Deacon Evans): A Protasian Deacon of the Word. A heretic and a Chaos sorcerer.

(Sister) Salt/Salinaria: Adeptus Sororitas commander. Born on the shrine world of Zephyr.

Supporting cast

Abigal: Ratling female. Witch (rogue psyker). Her long pork stew is rightly famous, as are her bone charms.

Abranovich: Green Knights Veteran. MIA in the Acheros salient (presumed absorbed by Hive Fleet Dagon).

Aleksandar: Green Knights Sergeant (Brevet). Field (rank cannot be affirmed due to a lack ranking officers).

Anatoliy: Green Knights Colour Sergeant (Chapter's standard bearer). Served as a scout with Chapter Master Belkovets. Executed by the Inquisition for heresy by negligence.

Amaya: A female librarian. Physically and (especially) mentally attractive. Has an affair with Makal.

Ashul: Assassin of the Veiled Hand. Worked with Murash during the scourging of Thira.

Belkovets: Chapter Master of the Green Knights. Went insane and ordered the Release; the mutagenic virus that eventually destroyed the planet Phagir and the chapter's future. Executed by his own officers.

Boudan MazLanlan: Second Officer aboard the Veiled Hand's voidship, the Red Right Hand of God.

Bracchus Eiden: Ambassador-General. Diplomatic envoy to Protasia. Killed by Protasian senators.

Burness: Major of the 57th Lo. Originally a Scintillan IG officer. Noble birth.

Calpurnia Pisonis: One of the leaders of the Second Library of Knowing. Very nice hair and curves. Helpful.

Cassandra: Daughter of the Word. The only woman in the galaxy that can 'control' (more like guide) Alfonzo Barca.

Cassilus: Thiran survivor. Recruited by the Hand. Technical aptitude. Reassigned to shipboard duty after an accident.

Charon: Chapter Master of the Tigers Argent. Rightly famous for his many victories.

Cresside: Female Guardsman. Chimera gunner. Killed by Protasian insurgents.

de Carvour: Colonel of the 57th Lo. Great leader, mediocre tactician. Fond of strong drink.

Diana: Veiled hand recruit (not Protasian). Slashed by Haxtes; Bled out on the deck of the Red Right Hand.

Dive Boy: Veiled hand recruit. Likes to jump off high places. Made a mess his mates had to clean.

Evgeny: Green Knights Chief Librarian. Executed by the Inquisition for heresy by negligence.

Eli (Eleena): Haxtes elder sister. A whore and a mind-witch. Married to Jons.

Eos: A sergeant (later captain) of the Tigers Argent (7th Company).

Father: Haxtes' father. Manufactorum management. Militiaman.

Ghaela: Archon (one of the top leaders) of the Veiled Hand.

Globus Vaarak: Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor. In charge of the Thiran field office.

Grimes: Imperial (Arbites) Marshal. Named Lord Militant and put in charge of the Protasian Affair. Appointed as Governor of Protasia post-reclamation.

Hash: Loian scout-sniper of the disbanded 627th Mechanized.

Helian: Protasian Veiled hand recruit. Leadership material. Mated with Diana.

Himilco: Protasian survivor-slave. Apothecary in the Cold Market. Haxtes frequented the old man.

Ivanov: Green Knights Sergeant (later a Captain of the Green Knights' Deathwatch Company).

Ivo: PDF trooper from Hervara. Ad-hoc medic.

Jarra: Female ogryn. Surprisingly blond, pretty, and clever. Part of the tome's security.

Jax (Jaxel): Haxtes' elder brother. A rebel and a traitor.

Joaquin: Commissar serving with the 57th Lo. Can be both flexible and harsh, depending on the situation. Likes to flay heretics alive. Very fond of Haxtes' mother.

Jons: Guardsman of the 57th Lo. Corporal. Sniper. Formerly a rat-catcher. Master of dawgs. Fond of Haxtes (father figure). Haxtes' mother (fucked), and Haxtes' sister (married).

Kara: Daughter of the Word and disciple of Samus. Twin sister to Willa.

Larissa: Veiled Hand recruit. Reassigned as a companion to the officers of the Red Right Hand.

Leontiy: Green Knights First Chaplain. Executed by the Inquisition for heresy by negligence.

Makal: Cerberus (guard) at the Library of Knowing. Has an affair with Amaya.

Malachite: Veiled Hand training master. Very dangerous, very perceptive, very scary.

Marcus' master: Unnamed Inquisitor, possibly a Radical.

Maxim Maximus: Imperial general responsible for the Protasian reclamation. Got sacked and forced into retirement on Quaddis.

Mazzo: Guardsman of the 57th Lo. Lance Corporal. Rifleman; very dangerous with the grenade launcher. One of Jons' buddies. Formerly a career criminal.

Melbinious: Long-dead Inquisitor, definitely a Radical. Haxtes' master.

Micor: Protasian Veiled Hand recruit. Tried to stab Ashul with a shiv. Got stabbed in return. Took a while to die.

Mother: Haxtes' mother. God looking. Latent psyker. Whore. Tortured and killed by insurgents.

Murash: Veiled Hand assassin. Lithe and quick. Assigned to Archon Ghaela. Not a good man to provoke.

Nix (the canine): Haxtes' dawg. Killed by Haxtes.

Owan: Navy armsman turned Guardsman after his battlecruiser was shot to shit over Protasia.

Olegov: Green Knights Battle-Brother. KIA in the Acheros Salient.

Rat: Guardsman from Luggnum. Paranoid and jaded motherfucker.

Ribaldo: Guardsman 1st Class. from the 57th Lo. Rifleman. Grievously injured, but survived to receive multiple cyber-grafts.

Romanov: Green Knights Veteran Sergeant. Later assigned to the Green Knights' Deathwatch Company as their Chaplain.

Lasar: Guardsman from Cyrus Vulpa. Got shot. Died sitting on a bench.

Roverto: Guardsman of the 57th Lo. Heavy weapons specialist. Formerly a manufactorum worker.

Sarge (real name: Blano): Guardsman of the 57th Lo. (Staff) Sergeant. Formerly a corrupt PDF NCO. Became a mayor and later the Colonel of the 1st Protasia Infantry Regiment.

Simenon: Rogue Trader. Corben's father. His will required Corben to personally command the family's ship, the Maiden of Golgenna.

Soldevan: Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor. On loan to the Ordo Xenos. Responsible for the purge of the Green Knights and the creation of the Deathwatch Company of that same chapter.

Venus: Tech-priestess of the Lathes. Part of the tome's security.

Vern (Vernissimon de Veridia de Archaos): Savant and Melbinious' chronicler. Homeworld Archaos. Creator of the tome. Wears a augmented exo-skeleton. Extensive cranial grafts. Facial electoo. Quite religious.

Verrigan: Commissar-General. Grimes' closest advisor. Responsible for the strategy of mass destruction that so devastated Protasia. Later Protasian First Minister and ruler of Thira. Also an Arch-heretic and champion of Khorne, the Blood God.

Vincenzo: Guardsman from the 57th Lo. Weapon specialist (melta). Killed by a swarm of ripper drones.

Willa: Daughter of the Word and disciple of Samus. Twin sister to Kara.

Zhukov: Prelate. Ministorum official. Very successful in rooting out the Word of Light from remaining Protasian cities. Appointed religious leader of Protasia.

Honourable mentions

Agnevin Golgenna: Original commander of the Angevin Crusade.

(Saint) Drusus: Frist Sector Commander of Calixis. Later a saint.

(the) God-Emperor (formerly: the Emperor): The immortal ruler of mankind. Rules all of creation from the Golden Throne on Holy Terra.

Horus: Primarch of the Lune Wolves. First among equals. Warmaster of the Imperium. Arch-traitor.

Jagathai Khan: Primarch of the White Scars legion of Astartes.

Lorgar: Primarch of the Word Bearers. Writer of religious texts.

Malal: Mythical 'rogue' Chaos power. Liked to fuck with everyone, but especially his 'fellow' gods of chaos. Got done in by the others.

Nix (the navigator), aka. Nikodemus: Navigator of the colony ship Absalom. Founder of Akakios.

Roboute Guilliman: Primarch of the Ultramarines. Author of the Codex Astartes.

Samus: Ancient daemon. Sneaky bastard.


	67. APPENDIX 2 - POINTS OF INTEREST

The list is not exhaustive; it includes a collection of interesting/recurring locations.

Absalom (hive): Oldest and largest hive city on Malfi. Looks like an oversized circus tent. Home to sixteen billion plus citizens and unregistered dreg.

Adrantis Nebula: Vast, star forming nebula that lies at the heart of the Adrantis sub. Pre-Angevin Crusade it was the home of many vile xenos realms.

Adrantis sub: Lightly populated and loosely governed subsector on the trailing borders of Calixis.

Akakios: Ancient name for Protasia, meaning First (as in 'First Colony').

Akiba: Agri-world in the Bokiban subsector. Famous for its bananas.

Archaos: Drusus Marches subsector. Planet of Philosophers. Vern's homeworld. Nearly destroyed during the Archaic War.

Belcane: Calixian forge world. Beholden to the Lathes Mechanicus. Famous for its stasis tech. Lies close to Solomon, astrographically speaking.

Bokiba-Bapas: Sector capital of the Bokiban sub, 3rd Circle, Finial sector. Biosphere devastated by weapons of mass destruction during M34. Population now housed in flying cities.

Bront: Calixian hive world in the Golgenna Reach. Renowned for its martial traditions and the very high quality of its Guard regiments.

Cadia: Important fortress world guarding the Eye of Terror (far from Calixis).

Calixis: Imperial sector on the fringes of Segmentum Obscurus, bordering the Halo Stars and the infamous Scarus Sector. Young and vibrant (founded M39). Physically large. Very remote.

(the) Circus: See Absalom (hive).

(Norma-)Cygnus Arm: Minor spiral arm containing the Calixis sector. Originates near the galactic core as the Norma arm Around the Ghoul Stars it becomes a diffuse mass of faint clusters, stellar streamers and galactic spurs. Further to trailing the arm regains its composure, and named the Cygnus from that point until it again fades on the edges of Segmentum Pacificus.

Cypra Mundi: Segmentum Obscurus High Command. Battlefleet Calixis takes its orders from here.

Cyprian's Gate: Pleasure world (with a dark reputation) located in the remote Trans-Hazeroth region. Original source of the Protasian Church of Light.

Cyrus Vulpa: Agri-world in the Golgenna Reach. Largest producer of grox meat in Calixis.

Drusus Marches: Calixian subsector. Trailing of the Malfian sub. Large and relatively populous. Known for the piety of its worlds. Named in honour of Saint Drusus.

(the) Eye of Terror: Galaxy's largest spatial anomaly, covering a sphere many thousands of light years across, and encompassing millions of systems. Located in Segmentum Obscurus.

Fenksworld: Grimy Imperial world in the Josian Reach, Calixis sector. Maintains as an Imperial Navy base as part of its Tithe.

Finial: Huge, decentralized sector located to spinward/coreward of Calixis. Contains no less than a thousand worlds, divided into thirty-five subsectors and territories, which in turn are organized into the 'Seven Circles of Finial'.

Footfall: Space settlement on the far side of the Maw. A haven for all kinds of ships and their crews.

Galactic Core: Very densely populated stellar region near the centre of the galaxy.

Galactic Disk: The majority of habitable star systems are found in a narrow band (about 1,000 ly thick) of stars that make up the galaxy's spiral arms.

Galactic Halo: See Halo Stars.

Galaxy of Man: The Milky Way galaxy.

Golgenna Reach: Central subsector, with Scintilla at its heart. Named after Lord Militant Golgenna Angevin, the leader of the crusade that created Calixis.

Halo Stars: Diffuse, spherical globe of predominantly ancient stars that surround the galaxy's main disk. There be xenos horrors.

Hazeroth Abyss: Great star-less void that dominates the Hazeroth subsector. The Warp flows strangely - or not at all - in this region.

Hazeroth sub: The most remote part of Calixis, but still home to several important worlds. Located trailing/coreward of Scintilla.

(the) Imperium (of Man): Galaxy-spanning empire ruled by humans. Covers about two thirds of the galaxy, but worlds are spread thin. Said to comprise 'a million worlds', but that number is not to be taken literally.

Iochantos: War-torn agri-world in the Golgenna Reach. Source of Ghostfire pollen.

Ixaniad: Old and stagnant sector to coreward of Calixis. Ancient noble houses run the place.

Jericho Reach (formerly Jericho Sector): Lost Imperial sector located on the other side (Ultima Segmentum) of the galaxy.

Josian Reach: Calixian subsector. Coreward of Scintilla. Very much a frontier region.

Koronus Expanse: Endless reaches of unclaimed space beyond the Margin Storms.

Kulth: Home of Duke Severus XIII. Subsector capital of the Periphery.

(the) Lathes: Home of the Lathe Mechanicus. System includes three major forge worlds and numerous lesser habitats.

Lo: Industrialized world in the Drusus Marches. Homeworld of the 57th Lo.

Lucid Palace: Located off the coast of Sibellus. The court of Lord Sector Marius Hax.

Malfi: Subsector capital of the Malfian sub. Most populous hive in Calixis.

Malfian sub: Subsector rimward of the Golgenna Reach. Contains the Malfian system. Most populous of Calixis' subs.

Mandragora: Sector in Segmentum Obscurus. Rather closer to Terra than Calixis.

Margin Storms: Warp storms and turbulence that makes passage rimward of Calixis very difficult.

Margin Worlds: An ill-defined region beyond Calixis' boundaries, bordering the Margin Storms.

Markayn Marches: Calixian subsector. Rim-/coreward of Scintilla. Important transportation hub and industrial powerhouse.

Mars: The Red Planet. Sol system. Home of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

(the) Maw: The only known stable passage through the Margin Storms (i.e. the only passage between Calixis and Koronus).

Merov: Calixian hive world. Golgenna Reach. The Merovech Combine (Guild Commercia) operates out of Merov.

Moreal Princeps: Administrative capital of the 3rd Circle of Finial.

(the) Periphery: Large and diffuse subsector to spinward of Calixis proper.

Perseus Arm: One of two major spiral arms. Originates on the far side of the Galactic Core. Sweeps past Sol on the rimward side. Important part of Segmentum Pacificus. Home to the Eye of Terror.

Phagir: Remotely located dead world in the Hazeroth Abyss. Formerly the homeworld of the Green Knights chapter.

Port Wander: Imperial Navy base near the mouth of the Maw.

Port Wrath: Battlefleet Calixis' main naval base.

Prol system: Markayn Marches sub. Distant dead system that houses the collective Administratum records for Calixis.

Protasia: Minor world in the Drusus Marches sub. Rebelled against the Imperium. Haxtes' homeworld.

Quaddis: Pleasure world, Golgenna Reach. All the powers that be have private fiefs here.

Scarus: Imperial sector to spinward of Calixis.

Scintilla: Sector capital. Industrious hive world.

Screaming Vortex: One particular warp storm, located spinward of the Maw. Source of [classified] raids against rimward subsectors.

Scutum-Centaurus Arm: One of two major spiral arms. Originates on the Sol side of the Galactic Core. Wraps around on the coreward side of Sol. Important part of Segmentum Tempestus.

Segmentum Obscurus: Northern quadrant of the Imperium. Includes the Calixis sector. Heavily militarized; its main task is to guard the Eye of Terror.

Segmentum Pacificus: Located to galactic west of Sol. Possibly the least turbulent region if the Imperium.

Segmentum Solar: The core of the Imperium. Includes the Sol system and countless other hive worlds.

Segmentum Tempestus: Located to galactic south of Sol. Very turbulent region.

Segmentum Ultima: See Ultima Segmentum.

Sepheris Secundus: Largely medieval mining world in the Golgenna Reach. Its fantastically rich ore deposits are extracted by manual labour.

Severan Dominate: Name of Duke Severus XIII's rebellious pocket empire.

Severanian sub: Name for the Periphery sub that never really caught on.

Sibellus: The capital hive of Scintilla. Home of the Tricorn Palace (Inquisition HQ) and Lucid Palace (court of Lord Hax).

Sinophia: Periphery sub. Failed hive world.

Solomon: Sub-sector capital of the Markayn Marches. Departmento Munitorum logistics nexus. Formerly the fief of the House of Haarlock.

Sol system: Imperial name for the solar system that contains Earth.

Spectoris: Drusus Marches sub. Agri-world/ocean planet. The filthy rich get their seafood from here.

Spinward Front: Name formally given to the Periphery front post Waaagh! Grimtoof/Severan Dominate rebellion.

Synford: Hazeroth sub, Trans-Hazeroth region. Forge world. Armoured vehicles, super-heavy Baneblade tanks included, produced en masse here.

Tarsus: Secondary hive on Scintilla. Calixis' religious and commercial hub.

Terra: Imperial name for Earth.

Thira: Regional capital on Protasia. Haxtes' hometown. Later Verrigan's seat of power.

Tranch: Foul hive world in the Adrantis sub. The site of a massive mutant uprising that later spread to other worlds.

Tricorn Palace: The main Inquisition fortress in Calixis. Conclave-controlled. Located in Hive Sibellus, Scintilla.

Ultima Segmentum: Comprises the slice of the Galaxy to the galactic east of Terra. Much of Ultima lies beyond the reach of the Astronomican, and is therefore Astra Incognita.

Vaxanide: Malfian sub. Minor hive world.

Zephyr: Shrine World, in the 6th Circle of Finial. Famous of its great Sororitas monastery.


	68. APPENDIX 3 - CHRONOLOGY

The list is not exhaustive; it includes only major events or events related to Haxtes' story.

M15-M25 DARK AGE OF TECHNOLOGY: A time of faithlessness and techno-heresy.

c.M18 First Founders: Malfi and Akakios colonized.

M21-22 GREAT DIASPORA: Other worlds (unknown how many) in the rimward reaches of Segmentum Obscurus are settled.

M26-M30 AGE OF STRIFE: Human civilization collapses. The death toll is catastrophic.

M30-M31 GREAT CRUSADE: The Emperor reunites the scattered remnants of Humanity.

Primo.M31 HORUS HERESY: Warmaster Horus rebels and is destroyed. The Emperor becomes a God and ascends to the Golden Throne, to guide and protect his people for all eternity.

401.M34- NOVA TERRA INTERREGNUM: The Imperium is dived into warring factions by

975.M35 civil war within the Imperial Commanders.

M36 AGE OF APOSTASY: Time of religious irreverence and internal strife within the Imperium. Ended by Sebastian Thor.

395.M36 Haarlock Charter: Mordecai Haarlock is granted a Warrant of Trade by Sebastian Thor for his service against the Apostate Fleets (as are many other captains).

723-736.M36 Great Voyage: Solomon Haarlock explores the Calyx Expanse. As payment for his navigational charts and ledgers he is granted the World of Solomon as a fief,

M37 22ND SPACE MARINE FOUNDING: Green Knights Chapter founded.

133.M37 World of Sinophia Founded: Granted to the Rogue Trader Teresa Sinos. Becomes an important staging point for further exploration.

M37-M39 Age of Plunder: Rogue traders flock to the Calyx Expanse in search of plunder and loot. Sinophia and Solomon grow wealthy as a result.

Medio.M38 Merates Settlement: Refugees from the Ixaniad sector settle the Merates Cluster. Later joined by renegades and other ne'er-do-wells.

322.M39 Angevin Crusade Begins: Imperial effort to claim the Calyx Expanse for the Imperium. Commanded by Angevin Golgenna. Staged from the worlds of Sinophia and Solomon.

367.M39 Transfiguration of Drusus: General Drusus is assassinated, but is restored to life by the grace of the God-Emperor.

372.M39 Death of Angevin: Lord Angevin dies and is replaced by Drusus as crusade commander.

380.M39 Grant of the Lathes: The grant of the Lathe system to the Adeptus Mechanicus.

384.M39 Birth of the Calixis Sector: Drusus becomes the first Sector Governor.

417.M39 Death of Drusus: Drusus dies (a second time)of natural causes. He is buried in a secret location.

502.M39 Beatification of Drusus: Drusus is declared a Saint (specifically the patron saint of the Calixis sector).

550-760.M39 War of Hubris: Sinophia tries to gain in power, but is slowly crushed by her rivals.

387-401.M40 MACHARIAN CRUSADE: Crusade on the fringes of Segmentum Pacificus, led by Lord Commander Solar Macharius.

709.M40 Tanis Incident: The world of Tanis [location classified] is depopulated by [classified]. The to date most severe manifestation of [classified].

738.M40 26TH SPACE MARINE FOUNDING: Latest founding to date.

738-741.M40 War of Brass: Rebellion of the Gelmiro Cluster leads to an all-out war that requires substantial resources to win.

917-924.M40 Port Wander: Founded by the Imperial Navy.

997.M40 The Discovery of the Maw: Rogue Trader Purity Lathimon succeeds where dozens of other Rogue Traders have failed and perished, discovering and plotting safe passage through what she dubs 'the Maw' to the Koronus Expanse beyond.

143-160.M41 THE GOTHIC WAR: The 12th Black Crusade hits the Gothic sector.

211-226.M41 Meritech Wars: The Merates Cluster is brought under Imperial control through a join Calixis-Ixaniad naval operation.

410.M41 Footfall: Rogue Trader Parsimus Dewain founds Footfall.

410-412.M41 First Siege of Vaxanide: First major ork Waaagh! to his the sector after its founding. Marks the beginning of a period of ork raids and insurrection in the spinward territories.

428-479.M41 The Reign of Terror on Malfi: The ascension of the House of Koba on Malfi results in the most tyrannical and brutal regime in thehistory of the Calixis Sector,

444.M41 FIRST WAR FOR ARMAGEDDON: [Classified] forces attack the key hive world of Armageddon.

499.M41 The Bloody Solstice on Malfi: The rise of the appallingly powerful cult of the [classified], forces an end to Malfi's internal divisions at the cost of the near fall of that mighty world to annihilation.

507.M41 Second Siege of Vaxanide: Imperial Navy blows up an ork-infested space hulk before it can debark its green-skinned cargo, thereby ending the Second Siege of Vaxanide before it really begun.

c. 600.M41 Recovery of the Lucid Court: Lord Sector Larhanus Sult, called by many "The Great Conciliator", is inaugurated and restores much power and prestige to the Lucid Court.

703.M41 Haarlock Vanishes: Erasmus Haarlock, last of his line, disappears.

731.M41 Ascension of Marius Hax: Lord Hax becomes sector governor after Larhanus Sult.

740.M41 The Manchenko Purge: A sizable portion of the Commercia Great House of the Manchenko Dynasty is found to be corrupt and sanctioned by Inquisitorial purge.

742-770.M41 The Malygrisian Tech-Heresy: The militant Explorator Archmagos, Umbra Malygris, goes renegade after clashing with the High Fabricator of the Lathes.

745.M41 FIRST TYRANIC WAR: Hive Fleet Behemoth assaults the Imperium.

755.M41 SABBAT WORLDS CRUSADE: Sabbat Worlds Crusade launched to reclaim that region of space for the Imperium.

768.M41 Mara Abandoned: The mining colony on Mara is abandoned amid great loss of life and the entire region of space around it is quarantined by Inquisitorial edict.

775.M41 Jericho-Maw Warp Gate Discovered: Alien Warp gate leading to the Jericho reach discovered in the Maw.

777.M41 Achilus Crusade: First tenuous advances of the Achilus Crusade launched.

779.M41 Lord of Kulth: Duke Severus XIII appointed Imperial Commander of Kulth.

784.M41 Margin Crusade is Launched: Under holy writ by the Synod Obscurus and taking place far to the Calixis Sector's Spinward border, a crusade is launched into the Margin region beyond the light of the Astronomican to the galactic north.

c. 790.M41 Margin Crusade in Trouble: The Margin Crusade is having trouble with an increasing number of Xenos; orks, Eldar, and local pocket empires.

792.M41 Margin Crusade Halted: The Margin Crusade suffers a number of setbacks in space, causing the crusade to grind to a halt.

792.M41 Astral Knives Cult declared Heretical: Long tolerated, the centuries old void born death cult of the Astral Knife is found to have become tainted by association with dark forces and declared heretical by the Holy Ordos.

796.M41 Margin Crusade Lost: Communication with the Margin Crusade indicates a build-up of ork forces. Astropathic contact becomes intermittent and then dies completely

799.M41 Severus Ascendant: Duke Severus becomes subsector commander of the Periphery (renamed the Severanian sub).

807.M41 Tranch Insurrection: A mutant uprising in the soot warrens of the minor industrialised hive world of Tranch rapidly develops into a planet-wide insurrections which topples the ruling class, the brutal Oligarchs of Tranch.

807.M41 Birth of Haxtes: The boy who will one day be known as Haxtes Guilliman is born on Protasia.

807.M41 Manifestation of [classified]: The to date latest manifestation of [classified] at [location classified].

812.M41 57th Lo: Mustered and dispatched to the Periphery.

813.M41 The Strangling: Passage to the Expanse cut off by the swelling of the Great Margin Warp Storms.

814.M41 Waaagh! Grimtoof: A major ork Waaagh! hits the Periphery.

814.M41 Severan Dominate: Duke Severus XIII quietly cuts ties to the Imperium, turning the Periphery into a pocket empire dubbed the Severan Dominate.

814.M41 Diplomatic Mission to Protasia: Lord Hax sends envoys to Protasia. There is an incident.

815.M41 Protasian Rebellion: Protasia rebels/Lord Hax orders the system pacified.

816.M41 Square One: Events depicted in Square One and onwards.

819.M41 Haxtes Recruited: Haxtes is forcibly recruited by the assassin cult known as the Veiled Hand.


	69. PARTING THE VEIL (BOOK 2 PREVIEW)

The following teaser excerpt (it's not a complete chapter) is from "Parting the Veil", the second book (coming 2016) in the Maiden of Golgenna series.

CHAPTER XX ONE SHOT, ONE KILL

Riegon d'Hal was a cautious man. He never went anywhere without at least four mean-looking bodyguards. He also had something of an entourage following him around; one or two mistresses, a couple of savants, plus three or four other servants. No servitors though. Seemed a personal preference; maybe he just plain didn't like them.

If possible he used a private motor-carriage. It looked ordinary enough, but it was undoubtedly armoured - and quite possibly armed. If Mr. d'Hal expected to leave his carriage for any amount of time he would usually take twice the usual number of guards. He tried to avoid taking the same routes too often and avoided the more obvious ambush points.

In other words: He was trying his best to make life difficult for hostile mercenaries and assassins.

But Riegon was also a person who had to go places and meet with people face-to-face in order to conduct his affairs. That frequently meant going to many of the same places over and over. And there are only so many ways to reach any given point, even within a hive city.

So in essence his defences were static; the same number and type of muscle providing protection, the same defensive procedures and same movement patterns. And Malachite had taught me that a true assassin could not be foiled by static countermeasures.

It took me all of thirteen days to discern his weaknesses and select an ambush point. I guess I could have done it a bit faster, but the contract had a deadline date well into the future. So I took my time, traveling around the local hive, getting to known the key thoroughfares, primary locations and useful shortcuts. I didn't waste time on personal frivolities. I stayed focused on my task the entire time. I was very young and terribly eager; it was my first contracted hit mark.

I settled on an open plaza near one of the Administratum hubs where Riegon had semi-frequent meetings with someone high up with the local branch of the hallowed Adeptus Terra.

Thrones were no doubt changing hands with the great grey stone building with its endless rows and columns of identical reflective windows. A fat banker greasing the wheels of government. A glorified scribe eagerly accepting his ill-gotten gains, not caring that his crime was far graver than any mundane treason.

Corruption among the Adepta ranked as heresy against the God-Emperor. But the scribe didn't care. He had taken the money before. He knew of others who accepted bribes. It was the way of things. The Inquisition did not bother with such petty heresy. He was safe. Or so he told himself every night before tucking in, trying to keep the almost reflexive fear of the Emperor's left hand at bay.

The spot was good because Riegon was forced to follow more or less the same route every time, give or take a dozen meters. He had to park his carriage on the parking sub-level located beneath the far end of the plaza. Then make his way on foot to the Administratum building. And every centimetre of that foot-path was now well covered by my longlas.

I had picked an elevated position. The crowds made plunging fire the only option: I was quite confident in my shooting skills, but without elevation I would have trouble spotting and hitting my target. My chosen perch was a sheltered space behind a large poured-rockcrete weather prediction gargoyle. This part of Malfi had been roofed over millennia ago, but the gargoyle continued to faithfully predict the local atmospheric conditions. Every five minutes it bayed out its message: Clouded, no wind or precipitation, heavy industrial pollutants, wear a breath mask.

I moved into position during the night cycle and then waited for my target to appear. As far as I could tell he came here about twice each week, suggesting he was seeing more than just one Adept. Not important. I had decided I would wait for the entire day cycle. If he didn't show I would backtrack, rest and repeat the process until he showed. I had plenty of time and an excellent position. I could afford to wait.

After two hours I was bored. To compensate I begun a neural exercise, working my way through my muscle groups by use of the sympathetic nervous system. I still had issues consciously controlling a few of my minor muscles. There was one muscle near my right thigh, and two more in my face, that refused to behave. Plus a couple more in my feet. Try as I might I couldn't get to them. Annoying.

I then turned to a more challenging game; calling upon those parts of my musculature that were normally subconsciously controlled by the parasympathetic nervous system. I knew I was fairly good at it. Consciously control my heart rate was within my power; but the heart isusually best left to its own devices. I could also control, to some degree, urination, digestion and defecation. Same with saliva and tears. And I could make my dick rise, even without any sexual arousal. A pretty neat trick. In theory I could also keep it docile in the face of actual arousal.

The trick was a combination of focused training and bio-enhancers. The bio-enhancers gave access to bodily functions normally off-limits and the training let you actually manipulate your own internal processes - without causing death or damage to yourself.

Around noon I spotted a small object wedged between the wall and the gargoyle. It took a while to pry it loose without moving around too much. If someone spotted an assassin with a sniper rifle perched above the plaza they would call the law. And this being Administratum turf chances were the Arbites would show up. That I didn't want. Local law enforcement I could evade, defeat or bribe - but not the Imperium's own enforcers. I was cocky, but not terminally stupid. Being spotted would of course also force me to find another spot from which to launch my attack. And I knew I wouldn't be so lucky the next time around.

It was an old shell casing made of brass. It was so badly corroded that I wouldn't have realized what it was if I hadn't been so thoroughly schooled in the lore of firearms. It must have sat up here for hundreds of years, if not longer. It was fairly big so it must have come from a rifle-sized stub gun. I gave a shot laugh as realization hit me: This position had been used by another sniper, long before my time. I decided it was a sign of good fortune and put it in my utility pouch. I resumed my waiting games.

Fate - or the God-Emperor - was on my side that day. My mark appeared less than six hours later, saving me from a lengthy wait. I let him go in and complete his affairs, knowing that he would return the same way in about half an hour. I used the time to good effect, going through some limbering exercises and purging my mind of unnecessary thoughts and emotions. I powered up the rifle, removed the lens covers from my preysense sight.

He reappeared on time. Being on foot meant bringing a full retinue. Eight beefy bodyguards packing a variety of concealed weapons. Three savants, two blonde escorts, and the usual handful of other sycophants. Eighteen people, Riegon included. They moved through the crowd, slowed by the size of the group and the need to keep up appearances. Besides; they didn't have anything to fear, did they? They had come this way many times before and there never had been any incidents. Not here in Administratum-land. Routine lulling them into complacency.

I drew a mental line across the plaza; if Riegon crossed that line I would take my shot even if he was still on the move. But until he did I would keep him in my sights and only fire if he halted. I was going for a head shot. I've already said I was quite confident of my skills with the rifle, but I knew my limitations. Hitting someone in the head at over four hundred meters is a challenge, even with a longlas and a decent scope. An acceptable challenge if they are stationary. Unacceptable if they are moving. I was also hoping to avoid collateral, since Malachite had specifically made a point of it.

I waited. Riegon kept moving. Once or twice he stopped briefly. On both counts my shot was obscured by his entourage despite my elevated position.

The distance to my mental line kept dropping. Twenty meters. Ten meters. Five meters.

One of the girls said something. He turned to reply, stopping for a brief second. His guards adjusted to cover him with their bodies. Too late.

Riegon d'Hal's head loomed in my sights.

I took the shot.

For a brief instant a beam of coherent energy connected my longlas to my target's right temple. A perfect hit at a range of more than four hundred Imperial meters. The energy transfer caused the outer surface of the skull to heat up in a most dramatic fashion: One moment Riegon d'Hal was standing there, all fat and happy, the next moment his head had become as hot as the surface of your friendly neighbourhood star. The end result was both fatal and spectacular; a veritable explosion of charred bone, seared brain, and burning hair.

One shot, one kill. Malachite would approve.


	70. AUTHOR'S PREFACE

The novel you are reading is the first book in a trilogy of Warhammer 40,000 fan-fiction. It is set in the gothic dark future galaxy created by Rick Priestly et al and later expanded upon by countless other writers. More specifically the trilogy is influenced by way the Imperium and the Inquisition are portrayed in Dan Abnett's Eisenhorn/Ravenor series and the Warhammer 40,000 Roleplay game lines (the bulk of the action actually takes place in and around the official Calixis sector setting).

There are probably as many interpretations of 40k as there are fans. Or, as one particular 40k fan (that would be you Kage) puts it: YMMV - Your Mileage May Vary. By Games Workshop's own definition of canon there is room for pretty much anything in 40k, which I think is only right and proper for a setting that originally had an Inquisitor character named Obiwan Sherlock Clousseau! If you want to explore the idea further, Gav Thorpe has a particularly good post on his blog that covers the subject:

2010/01/21/jumping-the-fence/

So how is my interpretation of the setting? The easiest way to find out would be to read the novel, but here goes:

It is more old school than new. I was one of those kids that were around to pick up the original Warhammer 40,000: Rogue Trader when it was available in game stores. The setting has evolved since then, and so has my interpretation of it, but I still hold on to many of the old ideas.

It is more (hard) science fiction than steampunk-fantasy in space. Space Marines are fanatical, indoctrinated killers, not space knights. Power armour is incredibly complex and advanced, not akin to steam-powered plate mail. Orks aren't funny green things playing with teeth, but warmongering aliens, armed to the teeth.

It's not (only) about the action, it's (also) about the people. The galaxy isn't inhabited by comic book figures, but by real people, trapped in a violent, dystopian future. They are you - and me - transplanted tens of thousands of year into the future, where they must live under the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. There is going to be loads of action, but there will also be scenes that focus on who it's like to live in such grim and dark times.

But enough of what this book is and isn't: Hopefully you can enjoy the novel regardless of differences in canonical opinion!

Why would I spend a lot of time (we're talking hundreds of hours) and effort producing fan-fiction? Firstly I've had a soft spot for the setting since the early Warhammer 40,000: Rogue Trader days. Secondly I do enjoy writing in and of itself (it's been a LOT of fun). Thirdly I figured I could use the training, since I've never tried writing a full novel before (the learning curve was steep, but I'm rather pleased with the end result).

English is not my native language, but I'm fluent enough that I don't think you'd actually notice (if I hadn't written this). As a writer of non-commercial fan-fiction I haven't had access to the resources professional writers do, but I've gotten creative input, editorial aid, and proofreading support from my friends and fellow fans. Without them the quality of the novel would be greatly reduced, so thanks a lot for your aid!

If you'd like to know if the story will be continued, I'll give you an honest answer: Yes! I have plans for two additional novels (work is already underway). The first one should appear in 2015 or early 2016. It will be called Parting the Veil and will continue the story of Haxtes training - and eventual recruitment into the Inquisition - as well as explore Marcus' travails with the tome and the real galaxy. I hope to have a third book, working title Haegum, done by 2017 to wrap up the story arc.

Note that part of the narrative is written from the 2nd person perspective, which is kind of unusual for a work of fiction. The choice of a 2nd person narrative is not coincidental. For one the novel is a sort of tribute to role-playing games in general, and 40,000 RPGs in particular; in role-playing games the 2nd person narrative is very common. Secondly it has to do with the way the novel's two main characters interact. Read on and you'll understand why the 2nd person narrative makes more sense that the traditional 3rd person point of view.

The novel is intended for a semi-mature audience. There is strong language, brutal violence, and sexual references (nothing too graphic) throughout.

Oh, and I do hope you enjoy the book...

B.


	71. FRONT MATTER

DARK OMEGA

A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL

BOOK ONE OF THE MAIDEN OF GOLGENNA

Felix M. Bloom

TWILIGHTPEAKS PUBLISHING

.net

Books in the Maiden of Golgenna series:

Dark Omega (2014)

Parting the Veil (WIP – 2016)

Haegum (Working title – 2018)

(future release dates are of course tentative)

Copyright © 2014 by Felix M. Bloom

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

This book is Warhammer 40,000 fan-fiction. It is in no way associated with or endorsed by Games Workshop, Black Library and/or Fantasy Flight Games. As fan-fiction it is completely non-profit; I've done the writing in my free time, without hope of compensation.

Creative Consultants: T. Vaage, Messiahcide, Metzler

Chief Editor: Felix M. Bloom

Editorial support and proofreading: Messiahcide, Metzler, Tristan, Dragon Lord, LordPsycho

Cover art: Valentina Kallias,

Calixis map art: Black Library/Games Workshop

Available for digital download in .pdf format at: and

(physical copies might be available in limited quantities upon request)

Contact information: novel

Community:

Til Torleif.

For lang og tro tjeneste.

If you stare into the Abyss for too long;

whatever lurks down there will come for you.

- Inquisitor Tancred


	72. BACK COVER TEXT

_In the grim darkness of the far future there is only war. Beset on all side by multitudes of malefic enemies, The Imperium of Man tethers on the brink of destruction. Only the guiding light of the immortal God-Emperor, and the selfless sacrifices made in his name, keeps the horrors of the final night at bay. You are MARCUS AURELIAN, master psyker and prodigal Interrogator of the Holy Orders of the Inquisition. Your master wields the absolute and inviolable authority of an Inquisitor, and you are his sworn servant and trusted confidante. Recruited for your skills as an investigator and prowess as a warrior, it is your fate to stand on the front lines of a great and secret war: the war on heresy. It is a conflict that has raged unabated for more than ten thousand years, beginning when Warmaster Horus raised his banners in rebellion against his Father and Emperor. It is your solemn duty is to root out the foul stench of heresy, hunt down the vile alien, and expunge the twisted influence of Chaos. You will tread where others fear go: You will venture to distant worlds filled with xenos abominations, you will walk through ancient space hulks best left undisturbed, and you will savour both the cruel depths of the under-hive and the wicked world of the high-born in their spire-top mansions. You will face enemies that would steal the courage from lesser men, you will see things that will scar your mind and soul forever, and you will come to face you own dark desires. You will never know fame nor reward, yet if you stand resolute, you will die knowing that you did so serving a higher purpose, and that your name and deeds will be carried to Holy Terra in darkness and silence, there to be whispered to the God-Emperor himself, who will know and remember for all eternity..._


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